


far-flung hopes

by wearethewitches



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canonical Child Abuse, Chameleon Arch, Family, Fobwatched Time Lord, Gen, Good Weasley Family (Harry Potter), Hybrids, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Magic, Martha Jones Is a Star, Mirror of Erised, Missing Persons, Other, POV Multiple, Protective Jack Harkness, Thirteenth Doctor Era, Time Lord Harry Potter, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2019-11-17 13:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18099617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: The next morning, the Time Lady is gone and there is a post-it note on his lamp. He picks it up, reading the curly handwriting with a small smile.Thank-you. We’ll come visit. Promise xxx





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

“…alright. This is a first,” Jack sips his martini, watching the blonde woman fidget across from him, playing with her earrings and adjusting her suspenders. “You look a little uncomfortable, to be honest.”

“It’s ‘cause you’re _wrong,_ ” she says almost automatically, before cringing. “Sorry. The Doctor said it’d be funny, but I didn’t really… _prepare myself._ ”

Jack smiles charmingly, leaning forwards. “Maybe a little more _exposure_ would do it.” The woman – _Time Lady,_ he corrects himself – looks at him with flat eyes and really, Jack can see how she’s related to the Doctor if she’s reacting like that. _Must be genetics,_ he thinks, before sitting back again. “Or maybe not, though if we’re doing this the old-fashioned way, you’re kind of cock-blocking yourself, darling.”

“I do, I just…I’m a little nervous, is all,” she admits, wringing her hands. Jack takes pity on her, putting down his glass and standing, offering her a hand. She stares at him. “What?”

“We’re going to go dance,” Jack says and after a moment, she actually smiles, grinning as she takes his hand. She stands a little too close, but that’s fine, Jack can deal with close – she trusts the Doctor enough to trust him and they’ve never met.

_No-one’s ever asked me to knock them up on purpose, before._

He tries to imagine what she looks like under her clothes, without the jacket and boots. He imagines she looks as sharp as her cheekbones or maybe, gentle as those pretty eyes of hers. They dance and Jack genuinely finds himself enjoying himself as she wiggles and jumps, laughing as he spins her under one arm to the poppy twenty-first century music.

“So which Doctor sent you?” he asks when they finally stagger back off the dance-floor, hands intertwined. “I’ve heard rumours about Gallifrey not being _so_ gone, but that’s ages off in the personal timeline of the Doc I know.”

“A later regeneration recommended you,” she says, before asking, “Which was the last you saw?”

“Pinstripe suit and trainers, amazing hair,” Jack replies, watching her lip quirk in amusement. “He was the tenth regeneration, I believe.”

“I was recommended by thirteen,” she says and Jack frowns briefly, thinking that’s not quite right.

“Alright,” he lets it slide though, because she would know better than him. “What are you on?”

“Rude,” she elbows him lightly, shaking her head.

Jack chuckles, “So, what? I don’t get to know your name, what regeneration you’re on – what about your age?”

“Not older than you, that’s for sure,” she says, which Jack allows with a tilt of his head. They stand there in the club for a while, the wall beside them. Eventually, she starts shuffling closer to him and Jack trails a hand up her arm, leaning down to kiss her gently. There’s a moment in time where Jack recognises her – he _knows_ this woman.

But he doesn’t know her. Jack’s never met this woman before in her very, very long life – he’s quite sure of that.

They part and she looks at him with a blank face, eyes locked on him. Jack waits for any sort of reaction, bad or good and he gets kind of nervous when nothing comes of it. Then she squeezes his hand, smiling strangely.

“C’mon, Captain. You’ve got a job to do.”

Jack swallows, before kissing her again, murmuring against her lips. “It would be my honour, ma’am.”

The next morning, the Time Lady is gone and there is a post-it note on his lamp. He picks it up, reading the curly handwriting with a small smile.

_Thank-you. We’ll come visit. Promise xxx_

* * *

It’s a strange sensation, having a baby pressing up against her organs and spine. It hurts most of the time, actually – and as an extra-sensitive being, the Doctor is in a unique kind of agony.

“You’re going to be my only biological child in this or any more female bodies I have,” she tells the baby seriously, rubbing their foot through her skin to the upper-right of the bump. They like to kick there, indenting the skin visibly. “I don’t like it. I mean, I love _you_ , but the rest of it’s just a bit inconvenient.”

Outside the TARDIS, the cybermen make their threats again, reminding the Doctor of another reason being pregnant is an inconvenience – to the universe, in this case. Sighing, she watches from the safety of the TARDIS as UNIT deals with the threat a little more violently and a little more- _actually_ , she thinks, _you know what? I would have dealt with them the same way, but quicker. I need to get off my high horse now that Kate’s in charge._

More knocks come. More friends try to appeal to her. They can’t know she’s in here – a lot of them give up, thinking she must be on Earth somewhere or that she’s stranded on an alien planet. The Doctor thinks it might have been a bit of a mistake to park in twenty-twenty London. It was a good idea originally, thinking that she could just pop out every now and again to save the world and when she was bigger, hide out and let her friends take over.

Originally, it was a good idea. Originally. Now though, the Doctor regrets it.

 _I should have hid out on Mount Solitude or something, unearthed House Lungbarrow and stayed with my family,_ she thinks. _They would have disapproved, but they wouldn’t have stopped me._

Statistically, being in London hasn’t made alien attacks any better or any worse, even with her TARDIS acting as a beacon of sorts saying ‘this place is defended’ when really, the Doctor is in a self-imposed exile until her child is born. Not that anyone knows she’s having a child. Nope. _That_ is strictly need-to-know and the only one who has _any_ sort of idea about a Time Lord-Human hybrid being gestated is the biological father himself – and he didn’t recognise her.

 _He’ll hold it over me forever if I tell him,_ the Doctor broods. He’s the only male she trusts with this responsibility though, except Brax – but Braxiatel is her brother, in any case. That _certainly_ wouldn’t work.

“I’m so bored,” she whispers to her baby. “Like, _really_ bored. You’d think I’d be able to hang around for two years in my favourite vehicle in the universe – in _any_ universe. I’ve read all the books I’m interested in, I can’t do a lot of sports…at this point, I should start playing games, but games make me sad if no-one’s there to play with me.”

She pats her bump again, smiling a little, “You’ll be here soon, though. Then I’ll be too busy looking after you to be bored.” Closing her eyes briefly, she tries not to wince at the lancing pain that comes from being halfway through Gallifreyan pre-labour. “Though ‘soon’ is relative, I’m led to understand, especially in this department. We’ve got a few days to go, though. Five was the average, before Pythia’s Curse. Seven was long, two was short. We’re on day three, right now and I have a funny feeling it’ll take longer than usual. First natural-born Gallifreyan in yonks and I don’t even have a midwife.”

Her baby would have replied to her by now, if the telepathic link hadn’t faded already. It worries the Doctor, even though she’s read that it’s natural. What if her baby wants to tell her something? They had _amazing_ conversations, before. The Doctor taught them the building blocks of building their mind’s defences up from start to finish, shared her memories of blue Earth skies and introduced her to mental projections of all her friends. She paid close attention to Jack, making sure the baby knew he was one of his progenitors and assured them that his absence wasn’t because of any fault on their part.

Another lance of pain. The Doctor hunches slightly, feeling every movement of the baby and every stretch of her own muscles. “Ah,” she breathes, “not so late. Early. Very early. You’re a quick baby. This is why I need a midwife.”

The Doctor forces herself up, hauling her pained body across to the awaiting med-bed. She’d already she most of her clothes and feeling awfully hot, the Doctor has no qualms about shoving all the covers off, leaving only the sheets and an awaiting white towel for the baby – which she grabs quite quickly, less than an hour later.

Her baby wails and cries, radiating distress. The Doctor feels it and reciprocates mentally, reaching out even as she wraps the baby up against her chest. She’s surprised to find them already presenting their sex organs, an unusual occurrence in Gallifreyan children – she supposes the Human DNA changed things up a little.

“My son,” she says carefully, somewhat glad she doesn’t have another female-presenting child, for now. Even billions of years later, the memory of Jenny hurts, let alone all the family she lost in the Time War. Her family was always full of women, from her granddaughter Susan to her many grandmothers in House Lungbarrow. “You’re messy and utterly gorgeous, aren’t you?”

Her son, calmed by her mental soothing and actual voice, still wriggles and whimpers, but the Doctor chatters on and on, unable to stop from smiling to herself. _I have a son,_ she thinks, _I have a son_.

“Now…what am I going to call you?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

He wanders, searching for the room with the Mirror again. It was so strange, seeing his family there, as if they were standing behind him. Harry aches for more – to know who he is, to know where he comes from. Avoiding Filch and sidestepping Mrs Norris, Harry finds the room again, faster than the night before, eagerly rushing towards the dusty, ornate magical artefact.

Only, no longer does his family stare back at him. There are no green-eyed grandfathers, no knobbly-kneed grandmothers. No great aunts or uncles – and no parents. No Lily and James Potter stare back at him with precious smiles only reserved for him.

“I don’t understand,” Harry whispers, feeling heartbroken. His reflection smiles at him, reaching into their pocket and bringing something out. Harry reaches into his own pocket, but it’s empty and he watches as the Harry in the Mirror lifts his arm, hand rising until, quite dramatically, he lets a pocket-watch fall from a chain. It swings in the silence and Harry squints at it, trying to see closer.

But Harry’s sight has always been spotty at short range and his cheap, charity-shop glasses don’t do much to make it any better. He can see something like engravings on the watch, if he steps further back, but they’re too faint and even as Harry tries to see more by stepping backwards, the Mirror’s power becomes lost.

“What’s so special about a watch?” he asks himself and the Harry in the mirror smiles brightly, pressing the watch to his chest, cradling it. Harry still doesn’t understand and Harry still hurts, too. He’d come to see his _family,_ not some dumb watch.

Then, his reflection mouths something. Harry frowns, head tilting as he tries to understand it.

“What are you trying to say?”

It turns into a game of charades, the reflection giving up with mouthing his words. The Mirror-Harry becomes so much more alive than the reflections of his family, making binoculars with his hands and counting out to four.

“Look for…” Harry steps closer to the Mirror, resting his hand against the surface as his reflection holds out the watch, as if Harry could reach through the glass and take it from him. “Look for the watch,” Harry says, his reflection mouthing the words over and over. “Look for the watch.”

“And what watch might that be, Harry?”

The young wizard startles, twisting around and pressing up against the Mirror. Across the room by the door, half-hidden by shadow is a man Harry has only ever seen at the staff table in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, eating dinner: Headmaster Dumbledore. He slips off the desk he’s sitting on, robes swishing silently as he readjusts his half-moon glasses.

“I don’t- I don’t know, sir,” he says, before asking. “Am I in trouble, sir?”

“No, no, but you are right to think so. Curfew is long past,” Dumbledore looks down at him with bright blue eyes that twinkle gently. “What do you see in the Mirror? It’s clear that whatever you saw has changed.”

Harry hesitates before he nods. “Yes. It used to show my family. Now it’s just me holding a strange watch, sir. I don’t understand it.”

Dumbledore looks at the Mirror, meandering over to stand beside him. When he looks in the Mirror, Harry thinks he looks terribly sad for a moment and it’s familiar, in a way. Harry doesn’t know what, but he thinks, _I have seen sadder eyes before._

Then Harry forgets. He blinks, thinking that Dumbledore looks a little morose. “What is it, sir?”

“The Mirror? Oh, it is the Mirror of Erised, by dear boy. You, like hundreds of others, have discovered it’s delights. You saw your family until tonight and young Ronald saw himself as Head Boy.”

“How did you know-”

“I don’t need a cloak to become invisible.”

When Harry goes back to his dorm, he ponders what he saw in the Mirror. It’s so strange and so very different from what he saw the first and second times he went. _Why a watch?_ He asks himself. The only watch like that he’s ever seen belonged to Uncle Vernon and Harry has no interest in his uncle’s belongings.

 _It must mean something_ , he thinks determinedly. _I have to find out what._

The next morning, Harry approaches Percy at breakfast where he sits at the single long table in the Great Hall, leaving Ron to peer at him curiously as he talks to his brother from a few spaces away.

“Percy,” he starts, “can I ask you a question?”

Percy blinks owlishly from behind his glasses. “Of course, Harry. What is it?”

“If- if I was looking for something in the magical world, how could I find it?”

“Well…that’s a big question,” Percy says, frowning. “What kind of thing?”

“A small thing. Something I lost, like- like a necklace.”

Percy thinks for a moment, looking thoughtful. “There _is_ a summoning charm, but it’s rather advanced for a first-year. Though, unless you know exactly what you’re looking for, the spell might not work. Knowing the most likely location helps, too – and if you’re not a strong enough caster, summoning something out of your personal range won’t work.”

“Oh,” Harry mulls over his words. “Thanks, I guess.”

“What are you looking for?”

Harry hesitates, not wanting to tell him. “Something that used to be mine, I think,” he eventually says, before scrambling back to Ron, leaving Percy to watch him curiously as he departs.

* * *

 _Another miserable morning,_ Padfoot thinks, yawning as he transforms back into human form. The grey stone stays grey, as disheartening as ever, but the faded blue glow of the runes outside on the walls, entrapping them all are bright in the dismal prison. _Azkaban,_ Sirius stretches his arms out, cracking his back as he thinks bitterly, _home sweet home._

Outside, a human guard checks his cell, looking disturbed as ever to find Sirius waving bemusedly. Sirius thinks he’s a Crabbe. The guards and Aurors have always been disturbed by Sirius’ sanity; sometimes, Sirius is just as messed up from knowing why.

Around his wrist, the chain holding the watch against his skin warms, comforting him as he thinks in less pleasant directions. Sirius shuts his eyes, communing with the being inside.

_How are you?_

_‘The same as ever,’_ the being replies. _‘You ask me that every morning.’_

 _Structure defines life – isn’t that what you told me back in the early days?_ Sirius asks, briefly breaking the connection as breakfast arrives. Leaning forwards, he nudges the tray closer, sighing at the sight of the gruel. _Well, at least I’m getting food._

 _‘But not enough nutrients by far,’_ the being replies, piqued as ever. Sirius knows the only reason the being hasn’t insisted they find a way to escape is because of the potions shoved down each prisoner’s throat once a month.

Sirius eats and then he stretches like the being in the watch guides him to, muscles stretching and protesting. He’s not getting enough food to put on any weight and muscle mass? Forget it. As it is, stretching every morning is good enough to keep him limber, even if he doesn’t exercise much otherwise.

 _‘Sirius,’_ the watch then buzzes sharply against his skin. _‘Sirius, Harry’s looking for me._ ’

The words startle him enough that he overbalances, falling over sideways. Sirius looks at the watch in amazement.

“Harry?” he says out loud, voice scratchy and underused. His thoughts are jumbled and he remembers a young boy with his father’s hair and his mother’s eyes. “Harry…how could I forget that?”

 _‘I made you. I apologise. It was for Harry’s safety,’_ the being says and if Sirius had any will to be angry at the watch, he would be raging. _‘But he is looking for me, so it must be safe. It is time. Our connection is fragile after so many years apart. We must find him.’_

“Find him? It’s been ten years – he’s at Hogwarts, obviously,” Sirius argues, heart pounding in his chest. _Harry,_ he thinks in awe. Harry James Potter, a small bundle of flesh and energy, always raring to go and a Quidditch nut at one. _Harry Potter,_ he thinks, _Harry, my godson. He’ll be at Hogwarts learning magic._

 _‘He may not,’_ the being warns, quietly irate. _‘He may not have absorbed enough quantum energy from his caretakers to use quantum mnemonics as you employ them. Hogwarts’ lists may not have detected him. He could be anywhere’_

“He has to have,” Sirius shakes his head, sitting up and crossing his legs, pressing his fingers to the watch and feeling the circular script on its surface. “He did accidental magic.”

The watch warms as the being thinks it over. _‘I suppose he has to have, then,’_ it thinks, before continuing. _‘You must take me to him.’_

“I will,” Sirius promises in a murmur, hearing Crabbe return the way he came. Peeking through his eyelashes at him, Sirius bares his teeth as Crabbe glances inside his cell once more. Crabbe leaves quickly and Sirius – Sirius the Marauder, Sirius the animagus – turns into Padfoot, taking his chances at the gaps between the bars.

He slips through, of course. He knew he could when he went to escape the first time, all those years ago. Only the being in the watch stopped him, using his want for Harry to be safe and happy against him.

 _I must keep Harry safe,_ Padfoot thinks, taking the watch from around his paw with his teeth and following Crabbe to the exit, the cooling metal in his mouth. The being is asleep, now, trusting Padfoot to return the being to his true self. _I must keep Harry safe. I will keep him safe. I will keep them both safe. So safe, safer than Gringotts…_

Sirius will keep both the being and Harry safe – for after all, the being in the watch is Harry too.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

“Checkmate!”

The Doctor jumps off the platform gleefully, the Cyber-Controller electrifying and letting out a mechanical scream as the factory begins to shut down. In the distance, the Earth-descended humanoids let out cries of their own, the cyber-connection breaking and freeing them as the Doctor makes her way back to where her companions for the day are hiding out.

“All done!” she exclaims as she bursts into the room. “The Cyber-Controller is vulnerable, so-”

The Doctor stops short. The room is empty, except for the bodies of her friends – clearly victims of a patrolling cyberman. Positivity draining, the Doctor walks past them, finishing the job they started. _I should have known,_ she thinks miserably as she remotely deactivates the inhibitor in the Cyber-Controller’s chest. _I should have known they wouldn’t be safe._

She ends up brooding in the TARDIS, cross-legged on the floor by the console as she fiddles with a 50th century rubix cube. Well, not a cube. An icosahedron. Technically, it’s a Dogic, a five-sided rubix with eighty moveable pieces. The version the Doctor has is mechanical and state of the art, except for the dodgy twisting mechanics on the third corner – she got it at a hovercar-boot sale, she blames the previous owners – so each triangular piece changes colour every five seconds.

“Mum?”

The Doctor’s head jerks. She blinks, sitting up straight. “Oh. Hi, Jen.”

Jenny shuts the TARDIS doors, leaning back against them briefly. “You’re brooding.”

“Oi, am not,” the Doctor denies. Jenny rolls her eyes, coming to join her on the floor, combat boots catching on the grating. She looks the same as ever, except the Doctor thinks she’s changed her shirt- yes, yes, she definitely changed her shirt. It’s grey instead of green. “Where’s your jacket?” the Doctor asks, changing the subject.

“Lost it,” Jenny replies, nicking her Dogic and fiddling. She solves it after about a minute and a half, ruining the pictures the Doctor was making. “Why are you so obsessed with making sure I have a jacket?”

“Jackets are useful. All my regenerations have had a jacket,” the Doctor replies promptly. “How was Barcelona?”

“Rainy. There was a chemical pollutant in the air that was making the locals bark uncontrollably,” Jenny answers, giving her back the Dogic. The Doctor tucks it away in her pocket before reaching out to tuck Jenny’s fringe behind her ear. Jenny smiles at her familiarity. “I fixed it.”

“Good girl,” the Doctor says quietly – proudly. “You didn’t find anything, did you?”

Jenny’s smile fades. “Not exactly. I picked up a trace of another time traveller, I think. I just missed them. It smelt like- like static and just…” Jenny grimaces. “Time travel, of a sort.”

“You’ve had experience with vortex manipulators before – it wasn’t like that?”

“Sort of, but not,” Jenny shakes her head, climbing to her feet. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help. I’ll assume from the brooding that your search for my brother on Atumia was a failure.”

“Not quite,” the Doctor says in a purposefully light voice, joining her in standing. “I _did_ stop a cyberman invasion.”

“But you didn’t find him,” Jenny clenches her jaw. Her hand reaches out and takes the Doctor’s. “Mum, maybe we should think about asking your friends for help.”

“No,” the Doctor says. If it were anyone else – _about_ anyone else – she would have snapped. Here, she only shakes her head, drawing Jenny closer and cradling her offered hand against her chest. “It’s too dangerous. Your brother used the chameleon arch before he sent the Tardis back to me. He pre-programmed the flight and got rid of the space-time coordinate log. Even the High Council can’t track him and they- well.”

Jenny’s hand is gripped tighter.

“They can do all sorts,” she finishes, voice dark and barely more than a whisper.

“Mum,” Jenny takes back her hand, only to embrace her. “We’ll find him. You found me, after all.”

The Doctor shudders and presses her nose into her daughter’s shoulder. “Chance. I went back for your funeral and you’d only just lifted off in that ruddy space-pod. I could have lost you again and I wouldn’t have even known it.”

Her daughter leans back, meeting eyes with her mother. She’s staunch – determined. Her voice matches is at she speaks. “We _will_ find him.”

“With you to help me, of course I will,” the Doctor replies in a joking manner, but it falls short. Jenny smiles apologetically, though.

“I know. But I’m not the only one who can help, Mum. Sorry for this.”

Alarmed, the Doctor straightens. “What-”

Jenny spins her by her shoulder, hands pressing up against the muscles in her back – reaching a knot behind her left heart and _pushing_.

The world goes dark.

* * *

_Whvorp-whvorp, whvorp-whvorp…_

Jack’s ears prick and across from him, Martha stiffens, sentence turning half-spoken as they both register the familiar engines. Jack stands, twisting around to watch as the TARDIS materialises in Martha’s kitchen, right in front of the kettle as it finishes boiling. The first thing Jack notices is the change in colour of the old girl – black lacquer with white writing and a bluer shade of blue.

The door opens, admitting a woman in cargo-trousers, a grey shirt and boots, blue eyes scanning the room. Her hair is a familiar shade of blonde.

“Jenny?” Martha gasps, standing abruptly. “But you-”

“Died, I know,” ‘Jenny’ nods at her. “You’re older.”

“How are you alive?” Martha questions as she exits the TARDIS, shutting the door behind her. Jack watches as Martha’s arms become filled with a more exuberant blonde than the one who exited the TARDIS. The change is startling, her smile so _very_ familiar.

“The Breath of Life,” Jenny says quickly. “It brought me back almost immediately after you all left.”

“Who is this, then?” Jack questions as they part, wiggling an eyebrow at his friend. Martha rolls her eyes and introduces them.

“Jenny, meet Captain Jack Harkness. He used to travel with the Doctor, before me.”

“Pleasure,” Jenny says with a wide grin, offering a hand. Jack shakes, thinking her rather cool for a human. “I’m Jenny – a generated anomaly.”

“She’s a clone of the Doctor,” Martha adds, “his daughter, in other words.”

Jack’s eyebrows rise sharply. “Daughter? You’re off-limits, then, I suppose.”

“Off-limits?” Jenny’s brows draw together and Martha winces behind her, before Jenny takes back her hand, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here for more important matters. My family is in trouble.”

“Your family-” Martha starts, only to be interrupted as the TARDIS doors bang open. In the doorway stands a woman in a long blue coat, her dark eyes trained on Jenny. Jack thinks she looks angry – no, _furious._

She’s also very, extremely familiar _._ Jack stares.

“What did you do to me?”

Jenny tilts her chin. “Nothing that didn’t need to be done, Mother.”

“You knocked me _unconscious_ and-” the woman finally looks away from her daughter – and _oh_ , something is spinning in Jack’s head, right on the tip of his tongue – and looking around, her eyes falling on Martha, then Jack. Her anger melts away, replaced with surprise. Then the nerves come, her voice high-pitched as she says their names. “Jack Harkness. Martha Jones.”

“There’s supposed to be a _captain_ in front of that,” Jack replies, finally realising. His lips purse and his words sound brittle. “Hello, Doctor. Nice to see you again.”

“Jack,” she murmurs to herself. “I can explain-”

“No, no, don’t. Jenny brought you here for some reason. I’d like to hear that reason _first_ ,” Jack demands, feeling used and cheated. He boils with anger. _You liar, you damn **liar** , Doctor._ From the flinch from the Doctor and the tiny, perplexed furrow on Jenny’s face, he’s projecting his thoughts loud enough to be heard.

“It’s…it’s connected,” the Doctor mumbles, before swallowing audibly. “Would- would you like to come inside or-”

“Let’s sit,” Martha interrupts and Jack glances at her, seeing the disapproval radiating from her. Jack wonders, belatedly, if she knows about what sort of a lottery regeneration can be – he knows they’ve talked about it before, when reminiscing about the time Earth was teleported to the Medusa Cascade and set a split second out of sync from the rest of the universe.

Jenny looks around, “I think your kettle is behind the Tardis.”

“Leave the tea. I’m sure we’ll be running around soon enough,” Jack replies, somewhat tense. The Doctor nods and she shuts the TARDIS, hand brushing against Jenny’s. _Why deliberately get pregnant when you already have a daughter?_ God knows how long they were apart, if Jenny ‘died’ when Martha was still around.

 _What regeneration did she say the Doctor was on? Thirteen?_ Jack peers closely at the Doctor as she gets comfortable in Martha’s living room, fidgeting with the edge of her coat and looking as trapped as Jack feels cheated. _How old are you, Doctor? And how did you get a new set of regenerations?_

She takes in a deep breath, barely waiting until they’ve all sat to explain what new, terrifying adventure awaits them.

“My son is missing.”

Jack’s heart stops beating.


	4. Chapter 4

The first time Harry comes across a dementor – horrid, soul-sucking creatures that previously guarded the wizard prison Azkaban until Sirius Black’s escape – he’s returning with Ron and Hermione from Hagrid’s hut. It feels like the world is ending and everything in him is screaming to _run, run, Uncle Vernon’s going to get you_ and there’s a woman’s screaming in the back of his mind, but Harry knows in the Dursley household, the best way to get past fear is to let it pass him by, so he’s still as he can be.

The cold though – the cold sinks into his bones and Ron is pale as a sheet, stumbling on the grass as he tries to run towards the castle. Hermione is holding her book-bag so tightly and her wand is in her hand, _incendio_ at her lips.

Harry isn’t quite sure what happens. He thinks someone comes to their rescue – someone familiar and surprisingly warm to touch, who lifts him up from the sleet-covered grass and puts him over their shoulder, using their wand to produce a bright, white light. Harry slips in and out of consciousness, shivering as he remembers too much and too little of Uncle Vernon’s punishment, twitching and aching in memory.

When he wakes, Harry finds himself in the infirmary. Hermione and Ron are in chairs at the end of his bed, sipping hot chocolate and talking quiet to Professor Snape. It’s such a strange scene – Professor Snape isn’t looming over them like in class and is even leaning back on the opposite bed, arms crossed casually across his chest.

He catches the tail end of Snape’s sentence. “-on your happy recollections. Mr Potter was much more adversely affected than you both, assumingly because of the dark residue from the night the Dark Lord attempted to murder him. Dementors would find him… _delicious_ , for lack of better word, but hardly more than a snack.”

“We’re sorry, Professor,” Hermione says meekly. “We should have asked Hagrid to escort us back.”

“You will not visit him again unless he does so,” Professor Snape instructs, before noticing Harry’s state of consciousness. A sneer appears on his face – or at least, Harry thinks it’s a sneer. He’s not wearing his glasses after all, but his long-distance vision has always been pretty damn good. Snape is definitely sneering. “Ah. Mr Potter – awake, I see.”

“Professor,” Harry bites his tongue, sitting up and blindly searching the side-table, unable to find his spectacles. “What happened? And where are my glasses?”

“They were lost in our escape from the swarm,” Professor Snape admits, seeming slightly irked. Harry himself is gobsmacked by the thought that _Snape_ would rescue him from dementors. “Madam Pomfrey is arranging for a St Mungo’s specialist to come serve your needs – a new set will be procured, with the usual enchantments.”

“Enchantments? Swarm?”

“Yes, enchantments – Madam Pomfrey has ascertained that your sight is irreparable, magically, unless you went under an expensive and painful potion regiment for the next two years.” Snape drawls, sighing. “Upon hearing this, I insisted you be provided the proper equipment to see. No wonder you’re such a dunderhead in potions if you can’t even read the instructions I write up on the board.”

Embarrassment swells, but Harry also feels a form of gratitude to the man; he’s replacing his glasses or at least arranging it, something Aunt Petunia hasn’t ever done.

“Thanks,” he says awkwardly, pulling his knees up to wrap his arms around them as he feels the cold. It’s sunk into his chest and draws him away mentally as he imagines what his aunt and uncle will do when they see he has new glasses. _Dudley will probably break them,_ Harry thinks, the thought stinging. _I don’t even have them yet and I’m already going to lose them._

Professor Snape abruptly waves his wand, a steaming mug on Harry’s side-table levitating in front of him. Harry takes it, sniffing the hot chocolate and almost immediately feeling the cold be overwhelmed with warmth. He eagerly sips, taking the mug in hand. His dark thoughts fade away – even the legitimate ones and Harry feels his interest in events spike again. He wonders if there’s a potion in the hot chocolate.

“So, a swarm? I thought the dementors weren’t allowed on the grounds.”

Snape nods stiffly. “They are not. The Headmaster is away arguing with the Minister, trying to have them removed in light of this… _attack_. It is odd that they would abandon their posts for three eleven year-olds.”

“Twelve,” Hermione corrects him lightly.

“Three first-years,” Snape amends. “I can’t imagine that any of you have especially dark pasts or have suffered much from the hands of your parents or guardians, which could potentially explain things-”

Harry’s stomach flips.

“-so it must be assumed the dementors are not as controlled by the Ministry as is told,” Snape concurs, before he stands up straight, pinning them each with short glares. “This does _not_ excuse you from completing your homework or assessments. Once you are finished your hot chocolate you are excused to return to Gryffindor Tower, except Mr Potter, who will wait for Madam Pomfrey’s approval.”

“Yes, Professor,” they chorus, Harry a little dully. He wants to go back to his own bed. Snape seems to sense Harry’s reluctance and with how far away he is, Harry can definitely see the scorching glare directed at him – a look that seems to epitomise the phrase _stay here._

Harry’s second encounter with the dementors is less than a month later and far worse. He’s travelling to the quidditch pitch, late for practice and he wishes he had his broom – that he hadn’t left his Nimbus in the Gryffindor broom cupboard – because the cold comes slowly and he thinks he could have escaped, otherwise. The dementors approach from above and around in four different directions.

Breath coming short, Harry looks towards the quidditch pitch, but his teammates aren’t in the air yet. The familiar cold is sinking into his chest and he is _terrified_. Ron says they suck out the souls of witches and wizards – all their personality and their magic, what makes a magical person a magical person.

“Leave me alone,” Harry pleads, before yelling out, “HELP! HELP!”

There’s no-one around to hear – no-one except a big, black dog who barks and rushes up to Harry, dropping something at his feet. Harry looks down, new rectangular spectacles nearly slipping off his nose at the sharpness of the gesture.

The dog pants, grinning at him for a brief second, before turning and barking as loud as it can, howling and rushing the nearest dementor. Harry drops to his knees, feeling something hard in the dirt below.

Harry looks, brain fuzzy and he _sees_ it. “The watch,” he breathes, all at once forgetting the dementors and picking up the watch. It’s warm in his hands and up close, in person, Harry can see the circular writing on the cover. His thumb brushes over it.

_Harold Harkness._

Harry breathes out, the warm air misting in front of his face. The dog barks in the background and Harry is bewitched by the watch. The dementors draw ever-closer and the dog yelps, whimpering as it’s flung off to the side.

Harry opens the watch.

* * *

“Oh, not good – _very_ not good,” Harold mutters when he comes to. “Padfoot, run! Get a professor!”

Padfoot lets out a short, happy bark which twists into something pained before he runs off. Harold takes out his wand, ignoring the dementor’s attempts to manipulate his psychic centre. With the return of his true self – with two hearts, a Time Lord brain and Gallifreyan-Human hybrid physiology that all _ache_ and _hurt_ from the abrupt transformation – he can defend against them.

“You’re not getting at me,” Harold shouts, but it does nothing. The dementors are still approaching. Harold raises his arm and deliberately overpowers his next spell. “ _Incendio!_ ”

The drain he feels as the flames roar out the end of his wand is expected. Blue fire streams outwards, setting two of the dementors on fire, causing them to squeal and writhe, flying off as their compatriots bear down on him with an intensity to match his own. Harold is unafraid – for a moment.

Then, one of the dementors bowls him over and another begins to suck out all the quantum energy his human self had been painstakingly collecting over his life.

 _Human self,_ Harold manages to think sarcastically, _myself, rather. I was only eight when I became Harry Potter._

In the back of his mind, Harry is competing for space and recognition, unlike his body, which upon taking in the fiery energy of his true form transformed back in an instant, recognising his true nature. Harold – or Harry, rather, because he finds he quite likes the nickname and it was what he was called, sometimes, as a nickname – tries to ignore it how his human personality attempts to rule his head. There is a _predicament_ at present and his only hope at being saved is an animagus who likely has broken ribs and can’t run at full pelt to collect a teacher who can cast what Hermione identified as the Patronus Charm.

 _I am not going to have a mid-life crisis in the middle of a dementor attack!_ Harry thinks roughly, before he does something extremely stupid and reaches out with his mind, slinging his awareness towards the castle and searching out Professor Snape.

He does not expect to be drawn into a mental trap almost immediately.

 _‘Who are you?’_ Snape demands. _‘Get out of my head!_ ’ He goes to fling Harry out, but Harry cries out.

 _Wait! Please, the dementors are attacking me! Please, I’m near the Quidditch pitch-_ and Harry cannot finish his half-arsed plea because a dementor has managed to actually get a grip on his consciousness, now, which is a trifle more dangerous than absorbing his magic. Harry is a Time Lord, the son of the Doctor and member of a telepathic species. He has looked into the Untempered Schism and _Time_ rests inside his head.

The dementors cannot be allowed to see that potential – _ever_.

Harry abruptly leaves Snape’s mind, returning to himself and rolling his cold body front-first onto the grass, curling his arms around his head tightly. _The eyes are the window to the soul,_ Harry thinks, knowing the philosophy is rather more apt than some would think. The dementors attempt to turn him over, but Harry is curled up in a ball, ignoring the digging shovels in his brain that is the dementors attempting to manipulate him into falling into an incognisant state.

“ _EXPECTO PATRONUM!_ ”

 _Oh, thank God,_ Harry thinks, relaxing as the swarm is somewhat repelled, the dementors around him flying out of range of the magical guardian. They’re still _there_ , but the patronus is hovering above him, a doe that is wavering in and out of existence; Snape isn’t strong enough to hold is against the increasing amount of dementors.

“Potter! Potter, get up, get _up!_ ”

Harry shudders and attempts to get to his feet. His body is still readjusting to being hybrid again and to top it off, his metaphysical balance is off. Hogwarts is placed over a series of ley lines and with his quantum powers – _magic,_ something inside of him calls it very, very loudly – syncing with his body, he can feel them. His Time Lord awareness only makes that perception stronger.

It’s been so, _so_ long since Harold has been truly around.

Snape looks queasy when they smash into each other, the potions professor wrapping his robes around Harry as if to protect him from the dementors’ grasp. Harry hides his face, breathing steadily as Snape’s patronus continues to fade, turning into little more than a silver wisp.

“I’m sorry, Potter, I can’t…”

“It’s alright,” Harry says when it really, really isn’t. Padfoot hasn’t come with a professor – will he even be able to explain what’s going on without revealing his true identity? Harold thinks of all the years he spent protecting that man from the effects of the dementors, holding the man’s sanity together and keeping his safe, _protected._ Sirius loves both his selves so much – human _and_ hybrid.

 _Don’t sacrifice yourself for me,_ Harry thinks, knowing it’s more than possible, to keep him safe, that Sirius will.

Snape gasps, the patronus sputtering out and a dementor pushing him back. Harry is knocked out of his arms, tumbling across the grass and they’re both vulnerable. Harry, all at once, wishes that his mother was here – or that someone else was, someone that his mother _trusts_. He wishes that- that someone with a blaster would come and vaporise these demented beings.

 _I don’t believe in using guns,_ his mother had said once. _Or any weapon that can kill with a click of a button. There are too many of them and impossible to control. If I ever see you with a gun in hand, we will be having **words** , Harold Roranicus._

A dementor looms ever closer, reaching down. Harry feels skeletal hands against his cheeks, gaze locked on the hollow creature beneath the robe. There is a moment of time where the dementor reaches with its powers, grasping at Harry’s magic, mind and deeper, far deeper – grasping at a spark of something dark, that writhes as it awakens within him.

Harold’s eyes glow red as he is Kissed.


	5. Chapter 5

“Uh, hello?” A knock against glass. River looks up from her desk, smiling upon seeing one of her old students at the door of her office. “Professor?”

“Rosie, darling, what do you need?” River asks, putting down her tablet. It’s dead – something about it is interacting badly with her. River suspects it’s some kind of radiation that she’s picked up in her most recent venture in space.

Rosie nervously approaches, hands behind her back. Her eyes flit up and down and around as she brings out what must be a retirement present, the holographic wrapping paper projecting three dimensional caricatures of the Luna University mascot, a dancing llama with a space-helmet.

“I’ll be sad to see you go,” Rosie says quietly, biting her lip as she tucks a stray strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. “But it’s for a good reason, right?”

“Very good,” River replies, reaching to take the gift. She places it upon her desk, undoing the paper at the seams – so unlike her husband, who in every regeneration she’s met has no compulsions about doing anything less than tearing wrapping paper apart, no matter how politely he does it – and revealing a long, rectangular box. River glances at Rosie with a raised eyebrow. “What could this be, I wonder?”

Rosie bites her lip, but this time it’s to conceal a smile, badly. No nervousness remains. “You’ll need it in your travels, or so I’ve heard,” she says and River pauses in her motion to take the lid off. Rosie clears her throat before reaching into her pocket, taking out a paper envelope, holding it out. “I was asked to give this to you by someone called ‘the Doctor’, who made sure I was to tell you that they’re a future-future version compared to the one you’ll run into next, eventually.”

 _She certainly seems to be reciting **something** ,_ River thinks, her grip on the box lid tightening before she takes it off mechanically. Inside is something strange.

“A…stick?” River questions, picking it up and not expecting the strange thrum to rush through her that feels like regeneration energy, being kissed by her husband in the Restaurant on Darillium and her parents’ laughs as River tells them a funny story from her travels through time and space.

The device – for it is clearly no _stick_ – is varnished and made from two different wood halves fused together, one pale like honeycomb and the other like dark chocolate; a black leather grip is tied around the thicker end and a tiny metal disk pressed into the base with an old Earth symbol engraved upon it: a circle surrounded by two crescent moons.

“Professor,” Rosie says, taking a further step forwards to lay the letter on her desk. As she does, she reveals her wrist and River is struck by the appearance of a vortex manipulator.

Her hand tautens around the mystery device and for some reason, she feels in her bones that it can help her in ways she is unaware if Rosie proves hostile – even if it hurts her to attack her former student, River will do it if she’s a threat. It’s an unusual feeling and an unwanted one. River is rarely affected by psychic suggestion and it scares her to think that this _stick_ can move her so.

“I know you in your personal future.”

“Really?” River asks flatly. “So, you deliberately came back in time to be my student?”

“Well…” Rosie grins, unafraid. “Yeah. You’re amazing. You told me to consider Luna and I’m glad I did; I loved it here. The Dean promised me the assistant spot of your successor.”

“…what is this?” River asks her, deciding a long-con might be necessary. Relaxing back in her seat, she waves the device at the pair of seats opposite her, not expecting the trail of silver sparks.

“It’s a magic wand,” Rosie says and there’s a short silence before she giggles. “Ever heard of quantum mnemonics?”

River’s eyebrows shoot up. “As in, the language of the Old Gods?”

“Yeah, that,” Rosie replies. “Certain humans have the ability to absorb certain levels of quantum energy that’s present in the universe, still. Or had, rather – the energy level in the universe dipped sharply in the twenty-first century, when humans still only really lived on Earth and the gene disappeared. Technology and quantum energy don’t mix.”

 _I knew that,_ River thinks, gaze gliding to the obsolete tablet she’d been investigating.

Rosie follows her gaze. “Accidental magic is normal,” she says in a slightly awkward voice, like she’d not expected to be saying such a thing. “I mean, you’re not really a muggleborn or a kid, so maybe not…”

“I beg your pardon?” River questions, putting the… _wand_ , back in its case carefully. Her hand itches to grab the Doctor’s letter, to see what he knows.

Rosie sits finally, fidgeting and looking more nervous again. “I have _not_ prepared for this, Professor,” she mutters, almost to herself. She tucks the same stray hair behind her ear again – it’s a nervous tic that River noticed years ago, when Rosie joined her archaeology program. There’s a few moments of quiet as Rosie thinks, River glancing at her ‘wand’ periodically.

“Okay,” the young woman eventually says, sucking in a breath. “Okay,” she says, louder. Her back straightens and she looks River in the eye. “In light of your rescue from the Library, it is my solemn duty to tell you that you, River Song, are unequivocally a witch.”

“…I think you’ve accidentally replaced _B_ with _W_ ,” River forces a laugh, but Rosie is obviously serious.

“You believe in magic, but not in witches? ‘Witch’ is just another word for someone who can manipulate quantum energy. You’re one of those people, now, thanks to how Harold resurrected you.”

“Harold? Who’s he?”

“A wizard,” Rosie describes, “He’s known as the Boy-Who-Lived in some circles because of how his adoptive mother manipulated the quantum forces using magic derived from the Old Gods, rather than modern magic, which is basically a brand spanking new method of quantum energy manipulation. Harold survived an instant death mnemonic known as the Killing Curse. Illegal and only able to be used by someone who means it.”

“Fascinating,” River murmurs. “Is he immortal because of what his mother did?”

“No,” Rosie replies. “You can ask him that when you go to his school, though. Your timelines are aligned. Technically, what I just told you about him was a spoiler, so don’t go telling anyone how he survived.”

“Are you trying to encourage me into following you wherever that vortex manipulator is set?” River questions, to Rosie’s surprise.

“Well…yes, to be honest, but not in a bad way. I only came here because you and Mum told me to.” Instantly, Rosie looks horrified with herself, standing abruptly. “I shouldn’t have told you that!”

 _Oh, sweetie._ River can feel the borders of her mind if she expands her awareness slightly. Rosie is much more complex, when she’s paying attention – River knew she wasn’t completely human at the beginning of her course, five years ago – but this is different from some human variant. This is… _new_.

“You’re very young, aren’t you, darling?” River sighs, abandoning her desk to join Rosie on the other side. She touches her arms, raising them up so she can take her hands. Rosie – Rosie with anxiety, Rosie who can’t be in crowded places – squeezes tightly, panicking. “Are you new to this? Meeting people you know before they’ve met you?”

“I’m good enough when no-one knows. I’ve told you, now. It’s different. I haven’t told you everything.”

“And you won’t,” River says firmly. “Now, you’re going to make yourself a cup of tea like you used to and I’m going to read that letter. Understand?”

Rosie shakes slightly. Her hands squeeze River’s again. “I understand,” she whispers, before shuffling away, moving across the room to where River has a portable kitchen set. River watches her choose a mug and a fruit tea before returning to her desk, opening the envelope fast, but methodically.

_Dear River,_

_To my darling, brilliant wife,_

_I know this letter may come as a shock to you. Its bearer may make you feel guarded or afraid. Please trust them – I trust her and I beg of you, trust her too. That woman has gone through so much and we, her and I, owe each other many years._

_This letter comes from a Doctor who is farther ahead in my personal timeline than the version you will eventually reunite with. I know all about how you escaped the Library and have many spoilers I cannot share. You know how it is. Timelines, paradoxes – infinite possibilities and infinite ways for things to go wrong when it comes to time travellers._

_I need you to go to Scotland, 1993. To be specific, you need to go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You never told me when exactly, so choose wisely – or trust the person who carried this letter, who you told me visited you and told you about the Wizarding World. It’s a fantastic place, full of wonder and magic. Magic, River! Harold managed to harness it, somehow and it was fascinating as it was horrifying to hear the circumstances behind his choice._

_Harold. Harry is important, River, **so** important. I can’t stress this enough to you while not revealing future knowledge. He’s important and close to my heart. Unfortunately, that’s all I can say about him._

_When you see the younger me, time will have passed. A lot of time. Even by then, my own perception of the years changed. I never told you exactly how long I was in the Dial; force me to tell you, when we meet again. Twenty-four years in Darillium can’t compete for time, but I’d do it all again just for that supposed ‘last night’. My younger self is changed from the man you last knew and I won’t spoil the surprise here – just know there’s something coming around the corner even you could never predict._

_I love you._

_The Doctor_

River takes a minute to process the letter, reading it over again and again until she has the entire thing memorised. Across from her, Rosie sets her fruit tea to stew, sitting quietly as the steaming water turns a darker and darker purple by the second.

“Are you a witch, too?”

“No,” Rosie replies. “Not anymore.”

“Is it something you can become and then not become?” River asks.

Rosie’s lips tilt. “Not really. I’m special.”

“Like this ‘Harold’?”

“Exactly,” Rosie replies, before picking up her tea, hunching in her chair as she sips. “What are you going to do?”

“Find out more about the Wizarding World in the nineties, I suppose. Although…” River smiles. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to arrive early.”

* * *

Blink.

Sniff.

_Thump-thump, thump-thump._

He can hear his hearts beating in his ears, pressure building up as he comes to. Harry blinks again, breathes in the warm air of the infirmary. Particles float through the light, the setting sun shining rays through the windows. The pain of returning has finally faded.

Sitting up, the first thing Harry sees is a closed set of blinds around a bed near the door and a sleeping wizard bound in chains. Harry stares at him, recognising him, but he’s not sure where from. His rat-like face pale as death, a purple tinge to his lips – but he’s clearly breathing, if the rise and fall of his chest is anything.

“Ah, Mr Potter. Awake, I see.”

Harry’s head snaps around, finding Professor Dumbledore sitting in a chair behind a mountain of get-well cards and sweets.

“What happened?” he asks, voice unexpectedly raspy.

“The dementors attacked you,” Dumbledore says, eyes locked on his forehead. “You were most lucky, Mr Potter. It turns out, the night Lord Voldemort attacked you, he inadvertently placed a shard of his soul inside your scar. The Dementor’s Kiss drew out the shard and the dementor itself sensed the connection to its brethren and fled to hunt. Professor McGonagall was just in time to save Severus from being Kissed himself, but was appropriately horrified on seeing the dementor assaulting you. How do you feel, Harry?”

“Perfect,” Harry frowns, swallowing and trying to speak without croaking – and failing. “Except for my oesophagus. What’s going-” his voice _cracks_ and Harry startles.

Professor Dumbledore levels him with a serious face and in his most serious voice, says: “Puberty.”

“…oh _great_ ,” Harry replies, assuming it’s because of his hybrid physiology that the process has sped up in response to trauma or… _something._ Before assuming the pseudonym of Harry Potter via chameleon arch, his growth rate had been comparable to a Gallifreyan child’s, with the exception of his bone formation – that had followed Human tradition, his bones fusing together during babyhood rather than childhood.

Dumbledore doesn’t smile, but he does nod. Then, he motions across the infirmary to the man and the closed curtains. “You were saved by an unlikely suspect, who notified Professor McGonagall as to the situation and assumingly, Professor Snape, though he understandably refuses to talk about the matter.”

Feeling a sinking in his stomach, Harry asks, “Who’s behind the curtain, Headmaster?”

The twinkle in Dumbledore’s eyes dims. “Sirius Black, my boy. He escaped Azkaban upon realising you would be in Hogwarts, which is as much as I could gather before our esteemed Minister had the man Kissed.”

“And him?”

“Peter Pettigrew, who rejoiced and revealed himself in an attempt to hide his guilt,” Dumbledore explains, turning his eyes back on Harry. “A failed attempt. I am adept in the mind arts, young Harry and I was suspicious as to why Mr Pettigrew would hide in his animagus form for so long, when Mr Black was imprisoned safely.”

“Animagus, sir?”

“As Professor McGonagall may turn into a cat,” Dumbledore explains patiently, “Mr Pettigrew can turn into a rat. He was once a great friend of your father, but turned to the dark. Your parents hid under a powerful enchantment called the Fidelius Charm, designed to hide anything the caster wishes – in this case, your home. Only the Secret Keeper could reveal the location and as ruses go, your parents planned well. Too well, I fear.”

“Professor, I don’t understand,” Harry says, frustrated. He attempts to connect what sparse details he has in his head and comes shortly to a conclusion that is confirmed by Professor Dumbledore’s next words.

“Peter Pettigrew was the Secret Keeper for your parents’ home, Harry. He was a Death Eater and revealed their location to Lord Voldemort. Sirius Black, your godfather, was thought to be the Secret Keeper at the time and then on for the next ten years, until yesterday.” Dumbledore bows his head. “It is a great tragedy that may only be made better by Mr Pettigrew’s swift sentence. A trial will be held to bare all a week from now and Mr Pettigrew will remain under the influence of the Draught of Living Death here in Hogwarts’ infirmary, under my watchful eye.”

“So…” Harry remembers, then, just who Peter Pettigrew is. It’s like a dam in his mind – his memories breaking through and overwhelming him. He gasps in pain, grasping his head, but he is cognizant enough to notice Dumbledore watching without any reaction.

 _Something isn’t right,_ he thinks, before diving into his own head. What greets him is shocking. The memories had punched through a wall built by an outside source, all his memories of being _Harold Harkness_ hidden by an enemy who had taken advantage of what the soul shard’s removal caused to his natural mind. The damage was repairing itself and he reacted by falling into a coma as his brain rewired.

 _I absorbed the shard, like I did Harry Potter,_ Harold thinks in disgust. _I had no time to notice its malignancy._

“What did you do to my head?” he asks the Headmaster out loud. Dumbledore does not correct his assumption that it was him who tried to block all of what Harold is away, silent. “It never would have worked, not for long.” Harry opens his eyes, looking at him. “Where’s my watch?”

“Being examined by great magical practitioners who will discover a way to remove you from your host,” Dumbledore says, voice dark.

“He’s not my host,” Harry says shortly. “He was an empty receptacle. All of what I was, I placed in the watch and when it was time, when it was _safe,_ Lily and James Potter were supposed to return me. Circumstances changed and I…” Harold swallows, remembering being in the watch, remembering being held by Sirius for ten years and then feeling that _want_ , that _connection_ sparking as his human self became aware of the watch. “I made something of a mistake in returning so soon.”

“How much time is ‘soon’?” Dumbledore demands, leaning forwards. “Harry Potter was a young boy and you have taken over his body without a care for his life!”

“I _am_ Harry Potter,” Harry draws himself up, glaring. “You cannot separate us. We are one and the same.”

“You have twisted his body to suit you,” the old man accuses, glaring. “Do not attempt to lie to me.”

“You’re right, I did – eleven years ago,” Harry crosses his arms. “It’s a way my species hide, when we’re in danger. Lily and James agreed to take care of me and deaged me. I don’t know why I look like them-” and that _is_ a mystery he shall have to uncover, probably by going through all of Harry Potter’s memories one by one from the day he was made “-but rest assured, I’m not hijacking a stranger’s body. This is _mine_ and it always has been.”

“I do not believe you,” Dumbledore replies, cold. He stands and waves his wand, shackles appearing to chain Harry to the bed. He immediately starts fighting them, Dumbledore placid. “Harry shall be freed and returned to us. He does not deserve this. You shall be expelled from his body before long.”

“ _Try,_ ” Harry snarls, still thrashing against the chains as Albus Dumbledore walks away.


	6. Chapter 6

_“My son is missing.”_

Martha reacts first. “You have a son, Doctor?”

“Yes,” the Doctor glances at Jack, wincing as she smiles. “Harold Roranicus Harkness. Harold, for short.”

“You gave him my last name,” Jack mutters, terrified. “How did it happen? Who took him?”

“He took himself,” Jenny reveals. “He looked into the Untempered Schism on Gallifrey and ran, stealing Mum’s Tardis and using the chameleon arch to hide himself away.”

“The chameleon arch?” Martha’s brow furrows, distress visible. “Who’s watching him? Who is going to wake him up?”

“That’s part of the problem,” the Doctor says lowly, holding her hands together tightly, knuckles white. “We don’t know. He wiped the system and I can’t retrieve anything useful. I don’t know what to do. I’ve been looking everywhere he might have gone, every planet he’s ever liked or admired or wanted to visit; there’s nothing.”

“How old is he?” Jack asks.

“Eight,” the Doctor replies. “He was going to enter the Time Lord Academy. Technically, he’s still enrolled. Schism-related deferred entry is automatic up until four years have passed.”

“Wait, hold on,” Jack sits up. “How is he in the Academy? How did he even get to see the Schism without going further back in Gallifrey’s timeline than the War?”

The Doctor shifts awkwardly. Jenny pats her shoulder and clears her throat. “Gallifrey’s demise _may_ have been averted, in a way. The planet is difficult to get to, hidden at the edge of the universe. Only the Doctor’s Tardis can enter or leave, though they’re still training people at the Academy. I’ve been, seen what I wanted to and decided I didn’t like it. Harold likes school, though. He wanted to go.”

“You’re also technically only six years old,” the Doctor adds, while Jack processes that deluge of information.

“I still don’t want to go,” Jenny nudges her in the side and it seems to be an old piece of banter, from how they share a smile.

“That’s my girl,” the Doctor says to her, voice quiet as she slips back into despair, barely a moment later. Jenny wraps an arm around her shoulders in comfort.

“We have to find Harold,” Jenny proclaims. “We’d like your help, please.”

“How?” Martha asks.

“Well…” Jenny looks at her with an awkward smile, “Coming to your apartment was an accident? I was tracing Jack, actually. Sorry, Martha.”

“Oh. Right. Well, no bother, I’m just glad you’re alive,” Martha replies. _Such a good person,_ Jack thinks fondly, before Martha elbows him lightly, muttering, “And don’t think I haven’t got questions for you, bozo.”

“Why, Martha, what have _I_ done?” Jack asks, pressing a hand to his heart. Martha gives him an unimpressed look.

“Harold _Harkness?_ ”

Jack glances at the Doctor, who flushes in embarrassment. _Oh, I’m going to hold this over her forever,_ Jack thinks, grinning. “Oh yeah. Me and the Doc finally shacked up – it was hotter than the sun, serious.”

“ _Jack,_ ” the Doctor moans, hiding her pink face. Jack chuckles.

“C’mon, Doc, you had to have known when I found out, I’d never let you forget it. Want an encore, by any chance?”

“Ask me again later and maybe I’ll say yes,” she grumbles to his surprise, before she stands, dragging Jenny with her. “Alright fam, into the Tardis. Martha, you still with Mickey? Where is he?”

“Working,” Martha says, before shaking her head. “I’ll be no use to you. Take Jack – do some DNA tracker or something, I don’t know. You find him, Doctor, then bring him back and we’ll get tea, sometime.”

“Martha Jones,” the Doctor says solemnly, before wrapping her arms around the other woman tightly. Martha clutches close, before the hug ends and the Doctor rushes off into the TARDIS. Jack spares Martha one last look – apologetic at first for bailing, then just happily, which is matched because Martha knows what it is to step into the TARDIS again after leaving.

“Good luck,” she wishes him.

Jack gives her a short, two-fingered salute before following Jenny into the TARDIS, not expecting the new, crystal desktop when he does. The door shuts behind him and at the console, the Doctor flips levers and smashes buttons and then, they’re flying and there’s no turbulence, no overt noise and could it be? Could it _really_ be?

“Doc,” Jack says, astonished. He comes up to the console, catching her eyes across the time rotor. “Have you gotten better at driving?”

Her jaw drops. “Captain Jack Harkness!”

Behind him, Jenny lets out a loud laugh.

* * *

It takes two weeks for Dumbledore to uneasily come to the conclusion that Harry is telling the truth.

“I never want to be cuffed again,” he mutters to himself as he makes his way home to Gryffindor Tower, rubbing his wrists. _Mum would never let him get away with it,_ Harry thinks darkly, even as his hearts call out for her. Their familial bond went dormant years ago, once Harry was walking, but part of him wants it back now just so he can speak to her, across time and space.

 _The TARDIS was scheduled to pick me up in twenty-eighty, to take me back to her on automatic after five years of waiting in case of accidents._ Harry won’t be able to live another eighty-eight years in wait – he wants his mother and he wants her now. _How could everything have gone so wrong?_

The Fat Lady is over-joyed to see him and lets him in without even an apology for not having the password. Inside the common room, Harry is faced with his housemates, who upon seeing him completely flood the area like he’s singing a siren-call. He gets questions upon questions about being Kissed by a dementor, about what it was like to have You-Know-Who living in his scar, about how he recuperated in the Hospital Wing.

It’s really all a bit much, but Harry’s had worse – once, he and his mum were proclaimed saviours of a planet and the population had swamped them, separating mother and son across a crowd of two billion. Harry is only a _little_ traumatised from the event. This is a lot, but he can deal with it, he totally can.

…though, it turns out even a respiratory bypass can’t help someone having a panic attack.

“Easy, easy,” Fred rubs his back as he manoeuvres him into a corner, George standing guard as the other students try to see what’s going on. He glares at anyone who attempts to peek and even pokes someone with his wand. “You missed the last game, by the way. Ravenclaw managed to break even enough to beat Slytherin – Gryffindor’s officially won the Quidditch Cup!”

 _Quidditch,_ Harry thinks, the thought so jarring that he actually takes a gulping breath. Fred cheers.

“There we go! Now, keep that up. You probably don’t want to see Pomfrey again after two and half weeks locked up.”

“Literally,” Harry gasps.

Fred and George, oddly enough, seem to realise he’s serious and freeze, looking at him with wide eyes. Harry focuses on quidditch – on _flying_ and the quantum mechanics behind it. Modern magic is different from the old, ancient powers the Old Gods used, different from even the magic used by wix of days gone past – it’s better, more accessible and at the same time, weaker. A new art entirely, really. Harry has to let out a strangled laugh, however, because something in him is providing these answers and it isn’t from the _Harold_ part of his memory.

_When did someone have time to tell me about quantum power? Lily, if it was you, I’ll study the ancient magic just for you, my lady._

“Let’s get you upstairs,” the twins say, Fred picking him up like he’s a child and letting George carve a path to the stairs. When they get up to the dorms, Harry finds himself being brought inside the twins’ dorm – the third-year dorm. It’s not much different from the first-year dorm, but Harry’s pretty sure that none of the drapes in the first-year dorms around the beds are multicoloured.

“Charms accident,” George grins when he sees him looking. Fred deposits him on a bed, before the twins sit on either side of him. “Now,” George continues, “tell us why you were in the infirmary so long.”

Harry swallows, wondering if they’ll be as freaked out as the Headmaster. “It’s…complicated,” he starts. He refuses to lie when asked directly, like this, not when it’s people he _trusts._ Ron’s brothers haven’t interacted with him much, but when they have, they’ve always been good to him – never treating him like he’s anything more than an eleven-year old boy.

“Uncomplicate it,” they chorus.

“Okay,” Harry rubs his hands together, lip twitching as he realises his temperature is down – back to normal, after over a decade. It’s as strange as it is comforting. “I’m an alien who put my alienness in a watch. I opened the watch in the middle of the dementor attack and became an alien again, getting my old memories back and my old biology. Professor Dumbledore thought I was possessing my own body – possessing Harry Potter, as he called it. It took this long to convince him this is my body, invasive procedures included.”

The twins gape at him.

Harry smiles nervously. “Any questions?”

Fred and George look between each other, before Fred asks tentatively, “When you say ‘alien’…”

“I mean from outer space,” Harry clarifies. “My mum is a Gallifreyan from Gallifrey and my dad was a human from the fifty-first century. We’re also time travellers. My mum…Mum immigrated here a couple thousand years ago though, from her perspective. Earth is our home, too. I know it’s hard to believe-”

“Not really, mate,” George interrupts. “Wizards have time travel, too. It’s the alien bit we’re struggling with. Also, you’re _Harry Potter_.”

“Did you replace him after Voldemort’s attack?” Fred asks.

“No,” Harry frowns. “I was always him. The Potter’s adopted me when I made myself human and forgot. They de-aged me and according to Sirius Black, pretended Lily had hidden her pregnancy because they were at war. The Potter’s took me in.”

“Huh,” Fred looks at him thoughtfully. “Coincidence and a half that you look like them. Did you pick them for that reason?”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t look like this, usually. I don’t know why I’ve changed,” he says, before asking, “Do you know if there’s a magical way?”

The twins exchange a look, before George nudges Harry. “Probably a blood adoption, Harry – your name is Harry, right?”

“Harold, but Harry’s fine. I was only eight when I became him. Technically, I’ve been human longer than I’ve been myself. It’s kind of strange,” he admits. “What’s a blood adoption?”

“Potion to adopt magical children,” Fred explains. “Needs the blood of two parents and usually, a Ministry signature to get a hold of the ingredients to make it. They probably did it illegally.”

“Right,” Harry says, tucking that bit of information away and wondering if it’ll fade. Part of him is disquieted by the idea of being blood-adopted, but another part of him hopes it will stay with him forever. _They were my parents,_ he thinks, _they died for me._

“Thanks, by the way,” he says after a long moment, “for stopping Gryffindor from crowding me.”

George ruffles his hair. “You’re our little celebrity. Got to protect the mascot.”

“I am _not_ a mascot,” Harry scowls.

Fred and George shake their heads in a sage manner. “You’re _definitely_ Gryffindor’s mascot.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not!”

“Are too-”

“Guys,” Lee Jordan interrupts, head poking inside the dorm. “Everyone’s worried and not really leaving. I mean, the arseholes are being arseholes, but other than that, Gryffindor’s gone mad down there.”

“He’s a firstie,” Fred shrugs.

“And also our mascot,” George adds, Harry insisting he’s not immediately. George wraps an arm around his head, hand clapping over his mouth to muffle his voice. “Tell them we’ll be down in a minute to answer questions, but we’ll be buffering them.”

“Cool,” Lee replies, before catching Harry’s eye as George lets go of him. “I’m glad to see you’re alright, Harry.”

“Thanks, Lee,” Harry replies, genuinely meaning it. The boy gives him a cheeky wink before disappearing back down the stairs. He looks to George. “Why do I have to answer their questions?”

“You don’t have to,” George assures, “but it’s probably a good idea to get the obvious stuff out of the way. Don’t think we haven’t noticed how deep your voice is now, squirt, or how you aren’t wearing those fancy new glasses of yours. You’re different than you were before getting attacked.”

“Yeah, almost _alien_ ,” Fred jokes. Harry rolls his eyes, avoiding looking at George in case he blushes. Subtly, he puts a hand to his throat, that after his accelerated start to puberty, protrudes like any adult man’s. The lack of glasses, he can deal with – whatever human deficiencies he had were repaired, his hybrid ones reappearing. Frankly, Harry would rather have only a single working kidney than the awful vision he had as a human.

“Anyway,” George continues, “This gives you the chance to get your version of the story out. Do you want people to know you’re from another planet, mate?”

Harry thinks it over.

“No,” he says slowly. “No, I don’t. The whole reason I was hiding was to grow up some more. If- if I’m an adult hybrid, the High Council can’t just pluck me out of the Academy and say that my destruction was for the good of the universe, like they would have if I stayed.”

“That’s not so long,” Fred says thoughtfully. “You only have to get through another six years of Hogwarts before you’re seventeen.”

Harry looks at him grimly. “Gallifreyan’s become adults at one hundred and twenty-four. I’m not going to be able to hide here forever, either – I’m not going to age like you do. I won’t get taller or lose my baby fat. I’m not even going to _mature_ at the same rate. Gallifreyan’s are more intelligent than human’s due to being the older, more evolved species, but I’m a child – worse than a child. I’m a _Time Tot._ ”

“Time Tot?” the twins chorus, sniggering. “You’re a toddler on your planet?”

“Maybe,” Harry grumbles. “My mother always said because she’s the oldest Time Lord in existence, it doesn’t matter. Age is just a number.”

“Yeah, but you can count how old you are on your hands and toes,” Fred jostles him lightly, “and I bet she can’t. How old is ‘oldest in existence’, anyway?”

“Normal Time Lord’s only live a few thousand years. Three, on average – seven, for the unusual cases,” Harry says, concentrating on what he’s saying. It’s hard because these kind of things, his mother taught him in the womb, so a lot of it is subconscious knowledge rather than anything he physically _remembers_. “My mum is a nearly five billion.”

“That’s…a lot, compared to the rest,” George mutters, shocked. “She _really_ can’t count all that on her fingers.”

“No,” Harry smiles, a small laugh bubbling up and out of his mouth. “No, she can’t.”


	7. Chapter 7

He taps incessantly as he waits for their reactions. His hearts hardly match the beat he’s following, the throw across the armchair muffling what might have been a satisfying _thump_ on the bare arm. Hermione is staring at him, but it’s Ron that Harry has decided to watch, deciding he’s the more volatile one.

Ron looks uneasy – shaken. “And,” he starts, words a hush, “and you’re sure this isn’t something possessing you?”

“Very sure,” Harry replies, voice only wavering a little. “You believe me, then?”

Ron opens his mouth to answer, but Hermione beats him to it. “Harry, I think you should go see Madam Pomfrey.”

Harry blinks at her, boggled. “Excuse me?”

Hermione nods firmly. “You aren’t thinking straight. Whatever the watch did to you is clearly some kind of befuddlement. Professor Dumbledore might have been thinking too big – adults do that sometimes, my dad says.”

“Well clearly, you’re thinking too small,” Harry replies, feeling betrayed. _And I thought it would be Ron who’d get funny about this._ He leans forwards, fists clenched. “I _am_ an alien. You’re my friend – why don’t you believe me?”

Hermione looks at him as if _he’s_ the one to be pitied. “Harry…” she sighs. Harry looks to Ron, but his friend is quiet, uncomfortable. Harry swallows, standing up and aiming for his dormitory – he wants to wander, to try get his thoughts off how upset he feels at Hermione’s version of ‘help’.

 _She’s just not seeing properly,_ Harry thinks as he grabs his invisibility cloak, sneaking out of the Tower and blocking out the sounds of her and Ron arguing in furious whispers. _In time, she’ll understand._ Knowing that Hermione will _have_ to come around doesn’t make the hurt any less palpable, however.

He’d been so bored in the infirmary. Madam Pomfrey dosed him with dreamless sleep in an attempt to cure his ‘insomnia’ – like the Headmaster, she was under the impression he was possessing ‘Harry Potter’ and that any damage he did upon his body would be felt once Harry was ‘free’. Neither Pomfrey nor Dumbledore believed him when he told them Gallifreyan’s only sleep once a week, at most. Harry has a feeling he’ll be doing a lot of sneaking around for the next few years, if he manages to stay at Hogwarts.

His wand isn’t in his possession – the Headmaster has it. He’ll be getting it back from his first teacher of the week. Harry has no idea if his body has been able to process the quantum energy his human self absorbed over the years, though it does _feel_ like he has. Harry won’t know until he casts something. For all he knows, he’ll be able to cast until he runs dry, unable to absorb any more.

 _I hope I’ll be able to do magic,_ Harry thinks as he passes portraits and ghosts alike. They all look so different in his memories – seen with human sight and processed with a human brain. Everything is so much more stark and colourful and human-Harry didn’t see the detailing, either. Harry almost snorts out loud. _Human-Harry couldn’t tell the difference between cream and duck blue._

He holes up in the library, eventually, reading a book about magical creatures by moonlight. He’s delighted to find that the art-work of certain creatures actually reacts to said moonlight, showing him what they look like in the dark. He becomes so absorbed in the tome that he doesn’t realise it’s time for classes until the first bell rings.

“Cor blimey!” Harry exclaims like his mum’s old friend Graham, the book falling to the floor with a _thump_ that summons the imperious Madam Pince. Harry forgets he’s under the invisibility cloak as he immediately apologises, exclaiming. “Sorry!”

Madam Pince narrows her eyes, wand whipping up. A spell splashes against the cloak, doing nothing. Madam Pince frowns, Harry removing the cloak a few seconds later.

“What was that supposed to do?”

“Remove disillusionment charms,” the librarian says firmly, pursing her lips. “How long have you been here?”

“All night. I _told_ Madam Pomfrey my kind don’t sleep more than once a week, but she doesn’t believe me,” he tells her, more than confident that Dumbledore has informed the staff of his new and improved state – though Dumbledore probably didn’t call it that. Madam Pince squints at him and Harry half-expects a detention.

“…pick the book up and follow me,” she orders, crossing her arms and tapping her foot in wait. Harry hesitates only briefly before darting down off the window-sill he’d been sitting on, picking up the book and coming to stand in front of her.

Over the past year, Harry-the-human had come to know Madam Pince as a beady-eyed, snappish old witch who is clearly protective of her books. No-one Harry knew liked her and he agreed. Harry-the-hybrid is getting a rather _different_ impression from human-Harry, Madam Pince leading him towards the main desk, waving her wand to reveal a door just off its right side.

“Take the handle,” she instructs, wand still raised. Harry does so, silent. “I’m adding you to the wards,” she tells him, wand swishing – implying that she’s casting as she talks, an impressive feat. “This room was for the old nocturnal students to use, when Hogwarts still took students belonging to more diverse magical backgrounds. Vampires, were-creatures who preferred the dark to the sun – immortals, even. I have no idea your background, Mr Potter, but if you wish to study rather than make mischief during the night, then this room is open to you.”

“Thank-you,” Harry says, before the handle hums under his hand. He feels a distinct _welcome_ , before the lock clicks. Eager to see inside, Harry turns the handle and pokes his head in, curious.

Inside is a common room-like space, with an L-shaped couch set in front of an empty fireplace and desk scattered throughout the empty space. Against the walls are several empty bookcases. Across from the entrance is another door, but its little larger, mimicking the massive double doors leading into the main library.

“You’ll have no access to the library itself,” Madam Pince tells him, pushing the door open further and slipping past him, boot heels clicking against the stone. She takes a sharp left. Harry follows her, eyebrows furrowing as she taps her wand against an empty desk, a piece of parchment appearing with a quiet _pop_.

“This is where you can write your book requests for the next evening,” she explains, sounding invigorated as she explains the library function. “Writing your name at the side, along with a bracket along here-” she trails her wand in a line underneath, where Harry can see faint bullet-points “-will section off your personal requests, differentiating you from other students, of which we have none this year. You can request specific books or a general category, of which I will recommend texts appropriate for your year-level.”

“What if I end up studying advanced texts?” Harry questions.

“You will discuss it with me when I am awake,” Madam Pince replies, chin tilting. “I would usually have an assistant, as Head Librarian, but budget cuts are budget cuts. I currently manage this hallowed ground on my own and it is a privilege as much as it is a burden. Sorting your requests comes out of my very _precious_ time, Mr Potter, even if it will be the house-elves that retrieve and stock this room from my list.”

 _House-elves,_ Harry mouths, wondering what type of creature that meant.

“Do not abuse this privilege,” she finishes, tapping the parchment gently and then gesturing to the room as a whole. “I will check the state of this room every morning. Do not bring other students in here and unless you have forgotten your belongings or have obtained permission from me, don’t enter here during the day, either.”

“Why?” Harry asks.

Madam Pince looks down at him balefully. “ _Because,_ ” she says sharply, “the wards are inverted, here. Meaning that during the day, they are not equipped to absorb the ambient, childish magic you output that comes from a natural over-loading of your magical core, a process that will continue until you reach the age of magical maturity: seventeen.”

“Huh,” Harry processes that information, startling again when he hears a faint echo of a bell that’s going to ring in ten minutes. “I’m late to class!”

“That you are,” Madam Pince waves her wand, pointing it at a large, broken clock over the fireplace. Harry watches it turn all the way around before stopping at the correct time. “I will write you a note this once, as I believe you are ill-equipped for class. I want a favour in return, though.”

Harry steps back, wary. “You’re a teacher,” he says uneasily. “You’re supposed to take points.”

“Would you rather I threaten you with detention?” Madam Pince sneers, rolling her eyes. “That invisibility cloak. I would like to borrow it next winter break so I can sneak past Madam Hooch to spike the punch at the staff party. She’s a light-weight and it’s my turn. I’m good at dispelling disillusionment, but rubbish at actually casting one, unfortunately.”

Harry stares at her.

Madam Pince glares. “Well? Get going. I’ll send a paper memo to you at quarter past nine to give to your first period teacher. _Shoo!_ ”

Harry scatters, dumping his creature book on the main desk as he puts his invisibility cloak back on. No way is he going to take the chance that Professor McGonagall isn’t on the lookout – who knows whether or not his dormmates ratted him out or not.

However, he can’t help the small laugh that comes from the absurdity of the conversation he just escaped.

_Who knew that the staff have a rotation for who spikes the punch?_

* * *

Hermione avoids him. Harry is fine with that, if still hurt. Ron is their go-between and frankly, Harry is glad that he’s back to his usual self because without her, Harry-the-human would have been panicking over the end-of-year tests; luckily for Harry, his own stressor has evaporated, because his wand still works perfectly with him and even sparked like it did in Ollivander’s last summer, greeting him with a warm buzz.

Professor Flitwick has pop quizzes every three Charms lessons. Professor Sprout asks each of them seemingly random questions about the various magical plants they’ve learnt about this year and Professor McGonagall is making them revise all of the first-year transfiguration theory and practical work in long, gruelling sessions. Homework for classes is long and daunting – but only once a week, a treat compared to the upper-years. Defence Against the Dark Arts had been cancelled when Professor Quirrell turned up dead in his quarters under mysterious circumstances, so there’s nothing but short study sessions under the supervision of various sixth years twice a week.

Potions is the best, in Harry’s opinion. Snape sneers and snaps, setting them revision work and making them memorise how to make a Curing Boils remedy; but he gives them the leeway to choose, giving them freedom of choice and setting aside half the classroom for potion-making and half for theory. He also ignores Harry so well that even Draco Malfoy has been giving their potions professor odd looks.

It’s only near the end of the year on the last day of class, three days before the train is to take them home that Harry and Hermione’s friendship repairs. It’s at breakfast – they still sit together at meals, despite not speaking, probably because Hermione is only friendly with Ron – and Harry and Hermione make eye-contact. Harry looks away sharply, but two seconds later, Hermione gasps.

“ _Harry!_ ”

Harry looks at her, seeing her eyes widen even further before she abruptly shoves Ron, grabbing his sleeve.

“Ron, look at Harry!” she hisses. Ron looks up from his porridge, staring with dead eyes; the Gryffindor boys had stayed up late last night, eating the last of their smuggled Hogsmeade sweets from the older years and various parents and guardians, so it’s no surprise to Harry he’s tired. Even Harry is a little yawny – he’d taken his weekly nap, not wanting to finish metabolising the sugar halfway to the far-away Library.

After a moment of staying though, Ron slowly frowns. “Did you do something to your eyes, Harry?”

“My eyes?” Harry questions, before looking in a nearby jug of milk. The silver metal is gleaming, shiny as a mirror and though it’s distorted, Harry can see what they mean, for Harry’s eyes are no longer emerald green: they’re his mother’s chocolate brown, from her tenth regeneration. Harry stares in awe, a grin slowly sliding into place even as he feels somewhat at a loss.

“Harry,” Hermione starts, clearly nervous. “ _Did_ you do something?”

“I think the blood adoption is wearing off,” Harry says, just as he feels a presence come up behind him. He keeps looking at the jug, guessing from the large blob of black that it’s Professor Snape. He turns, being proven correct as the professor focuses on his newly-returned balance of melanin. “Sir?”

His professor’s face ripples. Harry doesn’t quite understand the plethora of emotions in the wizard’s expression, but he recognises the strongest one: pain.

“What in the name of Circe have you done to your eyes, Potter?” Snape demands, even his _voice_ sounding strangled with some unheard hurt. Harry debates telling him the truth, before realising that Snape does already know that Harry is different – that he is a foreign entity, that whatever Dumbledore has said, he is not the Harry Potter they thought he was for the last eleven, nearly _twelve_ years.

“I was adopted, Professor,” Harry says plainly. “It’s all wearing off now, after the incident with the Dementor.”

“Adopt-” Snape cuts himself off, returning to silence as he looks at Harry balefully. Eventually, he asks, “What else will change about you?”

“Most of me,” Harry replies. “The eyes are the most obvious and easiest the transform back. I’m not sure how much time it’ll take, but it could be years yet before I look like myself again, depending on how the blood adoption works. My system is figuring out how to get around it. If it cracks the code of the adoption…”

“How will you explain this to your muggle relatives?” Snape then snaps, raising a genuine concern. Harry freezes without meaning to, thinking of dark cupboards and harsh hands. “Well?”

“I- I don’t know. I could pretend I’ve always been like this?” Harry squeaks, hearts pounding. He feels dizzy. “How in all the universe am I supposed to explain this? Oh god, I’m going to die. They’re going to kill me, I’m actually going to be _murdered_ this summer-”

“Calm yourself, Potter,” Snape grabs his shoulder and across the table, Hermione reaches over, taking Harry’s hand and squeezing.

“Harry, it’ll be fine. I’m sure your relatives won’t be too hard on you – it’s not your fault.”

Ron is pale beside her, having heard things and questioned things that Human Harry hadn’t thought twice about. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Hermione.”

Professor Snape, listening in on this conversation with much interest, is quick to haul Harry out of his seat. “Infirmary with you, Potter,” he says loudly and it’s so different from Uncle Vernon, who would haul Harry out of his cupboard by his hair. Harry allows it – he _allows_ it. He’s not sinking into a myriad of traumatic memories, he’s not imagining what punishment the Dursley’s will implement for his _freaky_ changes, he’s not, _he’s not_ -

Snape doesn’t take him to the Hospital Wing. He takes him down, deep into the dungeons. Harry’s school bag is under the table, though Harry knows Ron and Hermione will hold onto it with their lives until he returns to classes. It’s the mundanity of thinking that which breaks the cycle – not the calming draught which Snape forces down his gullet.

“Stupid boy,” he mutters harshly. “Stupid man…”

The taste of the potion is rancid in his mouth, worse than Dreamless Sleep. “Stupid man?”

“Stupid _Headmaster_ ,” Snape corrects in a murmur, before leading Harry to a seat. Harry looks around, recognising Snape’s office from five detentions this year. Shadowed shelves behind Snape’s desk catch his eye; they hadn’t been there, before. Snape notices him looking and grunts. “They’re…trophies, of a sort. Memories I force myself to keep, to remind me.”

“Remind you of what?”

“Many things,” Snape says, motioning to the newest display – one that hasn’t any dust on it, that doesn’t look _settled_ like the others do. Harry can see it, almost, how time swirls around the set of bottles, an after-image of Snape lining them up in a neat, specific order. “The third-floor corridor’s defence mechanism.”

Harry jerks, not having remembered Dumbledore’s warning about the third-floor corridor until now. Nicholas Flamel had completely dropped out of his mind and with the events of the new year – with Sirius, with the Dementors, with becoming Harold again, with fighting Hermione – he had no idea what had become of the corridor.

“The Headmaster pretended it was to guard Hagrid’s dragon egg and subsequent Norwegian Ridgeback, when the Aurors questioned,” Snape snorts. “You’re some kind of telepathic creature, so I know you’ll be able to keep it to yourself when I tell you the former prize was the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“Oh,” Harry says, mellow. “Huh. Dumbledore’s chocolate frog card.”

“What?” Snape questions flatly.

“Dumbledore’s chocolate frog card, that was where I’d heard Nicholas Flamel’s name before,” Harry tells him. “Human me was investigating with Ron and Hermione, after we stumbled on Fluffy during a particularly stupid excursion at midnight.”

Snape’s eyes slide shut. He mumbles to himself, the words somewhat of a mantra. “It is the end of the year, I don’t have to deal with this again till September; it is the end of the year, I don’t have to deal with this again till September…”

Harry feels the ticklish urge to add, saying with a slight giggle, “On September eighth, to be specific.”

The Potions Professor glares at him ever so nicely. “You are under a level three calming potion. I may have overestimated your tolerance.”

“I’ve the same tolerance as someone my body size,” Harry giggles again, leaning back his head to stare at the cracked ceiling. It’s rather clean, for a ceiling that is. “Magic comes from the Old Gods. I developed the same magical reservoirs as the average wix when I reformatted my body. It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my very short life. Bloody hell, it hurt. I bet it’s worse than regenerating; at least when you regenerate, your cells are healing the previous damage, too. That’s got to mean something.”

Harry looks up abruptly, telling Snape something he’s never even told his own mother. “I’m terrified by the concept of regeneration. I’m going to be killed one day, by someone else or just something fatal in general and then all my cells are going to burn up; I’m going to change, be someone new. My mother’s done it fifteen time and she said every time scared her, but it’s life for us and I was never to give up, not until the time came that I had no regenerations left.”

“What does that even mean?” Snape asks faintly.

“It means I’m going to change if I die,” Harry says. “I’ll still be Harold Harkness, but I won’t be like I am now – I won’t be _Harry Potter._ I might not even have magic anymore. I had to program that into the chameleon arc manually and I won’t be able to control my regeneration, not unless someone other than my mum teaches me.”

“Why?” Snape questions. “Why someone else?”

“Mum’s rubbish at everything Time Lord,” Harry says shortly. “Brilliant at everything that _isn’t_ being a Time Lord, except driving our Tardis, but even then it took her thousands of years of practice – but rubbish at Time Lord stuff, regeneration included. She’s blown the console up _loads_ of times.”

“I see,” the other man says slowly. “And your… _mother_ , she’s alive?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, going quiet. “I don’t know where she is. I want her back. I did this to myself though – made it impossible for her to find me without help and she wouldn’t do that. I was her secret. She didn’t tell her friends, not my dad…”

“You have two parents who are still alive and you’re going back to your relatives? The Dursley’s?” Snape mutters, pursing his lips. “Will the blood wards even hold?”

“What blood wards?” Harry asks.

“The blood wards that keep you and the Dursley’s safe from dark magical forces,” Snape informs him, fists clenching. “You were blood adopted. How long until the blood wards refuse to recognise you as Harry Potter? What did you say your name was – _Harold Harkness?_ ”

“Harold Roranicus Jaime Irving Wilfred Alastair Harkness,” Harry pronounces, pausing dramatically before continuing, “as my mother would joke. I think, at least. She always called me Harold Roranicus Harkness when she wanted to be dramatic or when I was in trouble. I’ve never seen my birth certificate.”

“I’ll assume the plethora of names is _not_ your full name, Harkness, until I see it on the Hogwarts registry,” Snape drawls, as if Harry isn’t hearing someone call him by his real name for the first time in nearly twelve years. “Of which I will be checking before summer lets out, I assure you. Magic presumes many things, such as identity, according to blood and relevant records. Blood adoptions, when they have been countered before in matters of disownment, revert the affected person to their… _maiden names_ , as it were. The blood wards will drop the moment your name changes and I will be watching the registry closely to retrieve you, should they do so.”

“Thank-you,” Harry replies faintly, suddenly blinking at a strange sensation in his stomach. “Before, were you serious about over-dosing me? Because I feel like I’m going to be sick, under all the calming eff-”

He has no time to finish his sentence, as he’s projectile vomiting. It’s embarrassing to the extreme and Harry feels horrid, after. Snape is bad-tempered afterwards, but takes none of it out on Harry – it’s his fault, after all.

“For future reference,” Harry says after Snape has straightened both Harry and his office out, his voice strained. “For future reference,” he repeats, “I’m going to be in this particular age-group for the next fifty years, so no need to treat me like anything other than an eleven year old when medicating me with magical remedies.”

“Duly noted.”


	8. Chapter 8

A car engine rumbles outside his window. Red hair and blue eyes, with freckles for miles – Harry recognises his friend and his brothers, though he’s not sure they’ll recognise him, if the letter for _Mr Harkness_ from two days ago was anything to go by.

“Alright, Harry?

“ _Harry!_ ”

He struggles to get upright, barely hearing Ron’s hurried, frantic whispering asking about his blue face and crooked nose. He sees George’s wide eyes behind what he learns is their dad’s enchanted car, working in tandem with Ron to tie a rope around the bars outside his windows.

“That doesn’t look like it’s set right,” he hears Fred say to his twin, thinking he can’t hear them. Harry feels relieved that they’re here; it’s more than Professor Snape has done, though Harry forces himself to remember what the man had said in that letter Dobby had held from him.

_The blood wards will no longer charge, but you have been there a sufficient amount of time for them to hold for the rest of the year. If you wish to be moved to another household, inform me as I cannot enter the property myself due to a past history with dark magic and shall have to arrange another travel companion. A negative reply need not be written and shall be taken as your acceptance of your accommodations._

Harry knows Snape has no way to know he definitely needed retrieving. Ron is Gryffindor enough to do it anyway, with only a lack of letters as proof that the Dursley’s have gone too far.

Fred and George use lockpicks to get out of his room, hauling his trunk up with difficulty and coming face to face with Vernon Dursley himself when Hedwig shrieks her defiance; Ron had helped Harry into the car with his broken arm and taken the entire trunk’s weight when the twins unexpectedly turned back for Harry’s beloved messenger-bird.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” Uncle Vernon bellows, face turning purple. Fred and George, forever in synchronisation, pull out their wands and glare murderously at the man, who just as quickly turns pale. Harry watches him stagger backwards, clutching at his chest with the same hand that broke Harry’s bones and wrenched him time and time again in and out of that despicable, _awful_ downstairs cupboard.

“All good, Ron?” Fred asks his brother.

“Because we might need you to drive while we deal with this cretin,” George finishes, threat clear. At the door to the bedroom, Aunt Petunia and Dudley appear, his aunt letting out a wail at the sight of her husband so shaken.

“Let my Vernon go!”

“You let our _Harry_ go, you harpy!” Fred hisses. “He’s your nephew – he’s _Lily Potter’s_ child, no matter what he looks like and you- _you-_ ”

“We’re reporting this,” George interrupts him, far calmer. He twirls his wand slightly, enough to make Vernon drop to the ground with a whimper and a floor-shaking shudder. “Our father is a high-ranking government official and Death Eater’s sighed in relief whenever our mother went on maternity leave during the war. Harry is twelve. He is a _child_ and we won’t let you get away with this.”

“Yeah!” Ron shouts from his place behind Harry, arms wrapped around his torso and holding him close. “Go back to bed and have nightmares about going to Azkaban for child abuse!”

“Azkaban’s too good for them,” Fred snarls, before storming over to the window, Hedwig’s cage in hand. He climbs up onto Harry’s speckled-red bed, then the rickety desk, the car shifting closer as he climbs inside and places Hedwig in the backseat with them.

George in Harry’s bedroom still stands there, fingering his wand. “You’re going to go back to bed, like my brother said,” he says – no, he demands, using a quiet voice that Fred wouldn’t be able to achieve at the moment. It’s the first time Harry’s ever seen the twins act so different.

“You’re going to wait for my father’s letter about Harry’s living situation and you are going to reply positively, using owl-post. Errol, our official post-owl, will not require being fed, as I don’t trust anything you’d give him except food off your own son’s plate. He understands instructions. _Politely,_ ” George glares at them, Petunia nodding frantically already, “ask him to wait while you write your reply. That will be all. Now… _go away._ ”

Petunia leans down, grabbing at Vernon’s arm as he gets to his feet rapidly; it doesn’t surprise Harry, even with his uncle’s girth, that the man can move so quickly. He’s moved faster than Harry, sometimes, just to stop him escaping punishment and so-called _discipline._ When they’ve finally left, Fred already sitting in wait in the driver’s seat with the car turned around for his twin to get in the left-sided passenger’s seat, George sedately puts his wand away and exits Number Four, Privet Drive.

Ron’s hold doesn’t loosen the entire drive to the Burrow.

* * *

Harry enjoys the Weasley’s very much – their home is amazing and he thinks even his mum would be happy here, with the talking mirrors, absurd clock and shed full of nick-knacks.

Mrs Weasley – _“Just call me Molly, dear, or even Mum, if you want._ ” – fusses over the state of his socks and feeds him more than even Dudley might get on his birthday; and Mr Weasley – _“Arthur, Harry, just Arthur, my boy._ ” – love asking him questions about muggle life, like how post offices work and just what the purpose of rubber ducks are.

Well…he asks Harry those types of questions after he stops looking flinty every time _Harry_ and _muggles_ are mentioned in the same sentence, at least. From what Harry’s gathered, Dudley’s living with his aunt Marge, now, because his parents are having big troubles with the non-magical Children’s Service. Harry is of the understanding that his bullet-pointed list of their many transgressions – with the very important note, _photographic memory_ in brackets at the beginning with a doctor’s note from St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Diseases – the pictures of his injuries and the documented inspection of Number Four is far more than the Children’s Service ever receives in cases like these, especially at short notice.

In the Burrow, explosions come from the twins’ room on the regular. There’s a ghoul above Ron and Harry’s room – _Ron and Harry’s Room_ , it says in bright orange paint outside the door, now – that Harry thinks is a badly-taken psychic impression of someone given life, who he enjoys talking to. Percy is a secretive sod, as Ron calls him and the twins often recruit the both of them to distract Percy so they can sneak into his room to find out what has him so locked up in his room.

Ginny, their little sister, had been curious about Harry from the start – apparently, because he looked nothing like his pictures in the _Daily Prophet_ or the art renderings in her _The Adventures of the Boy-Who-Lived_ series. Harry had taken a peek, with her permission, bursting into laughter multiple times at the idea that he did any of these things; but after, when Arthur is working at the kitchen table late into the evening, Harry perusing a book on household magic, he asks the adult wizard if the Wizarding World has lawyers that deal in libel and defamation of character.

Arthur, when asked, pushes his glasses further up his nose and quietly replies, “There are. I’ll get in contact with the family lawyer, but I’m afraid the sort of suit you’re asking for won’t be able to be continued after very long. The business that owns Ginny’s books have been doling out such nonsense publications for a very long time about many people, yourself one of many in the long run.”

“I’m not asking for it to be taken off the shelves,” Harry says, thinking it through, “I just…want it noted it’s not real; that it’s fiction and I’ve never done those things, that in the end all the stories…were dreams, maybe.”

“The dividends from royalties would probably help, too,” Arthur jokes with a small smile that reminds Harry of Percy when he’s pleased with something he’s said or done. Harry grins for a moment, before nodding. “You know,” Arthur fiddles with his glasses again, “the easiest way to avoid more of this would to copyright the name _Harry Potter_. I can ask a few favours and sign it all off at the Ministry as your guardian, but the fee…”

A crease appears between the older wizard’s eyebrows and Harry sits up, remembering a particular vault key. “Arthur, for looking after me, shouldn’t you get compensation?”

Arthur immediately narrows his eyes at him. “No,” he says shortly, pointing at Harry. “I will not have that type of talk from you, young man. You’re not a thing to be paid for looking after.”

“I have a trust vault full of gold. I want to pay for my own copyrights,” Harry says. “I want to buy you all Christmas presents and birthday presents and I want the same in return; but it’s not fair on everyone’s feelings if every…” Harry hesitates and he doesn’t want to say it outright.

Arthur understands, though. “We’re happy, if not well-off. I won’t see you squander your money just to keep a few jealous siblings happy,” he says softly. “If you want to buy us presents and gifts, you may, but not a single coin shall pass between you and any by the name _Weasley,_ Harry, do you hear me?”

Harry’s mind immediately jumps to all the ways he can buy his friends and new family expensive presents. Arthur seems to know this anyway, as he agrees.

“Little snidget,” Arthur ruffles his pale brown hair and leans over to kiss his forehead. “Always getting away from me.”

“Thanks, Arthur – for everything.”

Arthur smiles. “Your welcome, Harry.”


	9. Chapter 9

_Flourish and Blotts_ is as hot as it is crowded, no matter how many cool-air charms are at work. Harry in particular is uncomfortable, body-temperature far cooler than the average Human’s. Jostled left, right, backwards and forwards, he, Ron and Hermione make their way near to the front of the line, where the Weasley and Granger parents are waiting their turn to get copies of Gilderoy Lockhart’s books signed.

“This better be good,” Ron grumbles as Lockhart comes into view – all gleaming white teeth as he smiles, blonde hair primped and shiny underneath a jaunty hat as a short, irritable man takes flashy photo after flashy photo. “Don’t know why we have to buy them all _or_ get a set for each of us…could just borrow off each other…”

“What’s so wrong with his books?” Hermione questions, a crease between her eyebrows. “Are they badly-printed?”

“ _Totally_ fake,” Ron says, “At least, according to Professor S-”

“Out of the way,” the photographer barges past them, stepping on Ron’s foot as he does. “This is for the Daily Prophet!”

“Big deal,” the youngest Weasley boy remarks – loud enough to be heard by several people, including Lockhart himself. Molly looks scandalised by her son’s words.

“You’re perfectly correct to say so,” then interrupts a woman, slinking out of the shadows in a fitted set of black robes as she grins at Lockhart. “He’s a total fraud.”

Lockhart seems to recognise the woman – Harry certainly does. Lockhart stands up, face a picture of irritation underneath his fixed smile.

“Professor, how _delightful_ to see you here today,” he says with a thick voice, completely ignoring the Granger-Weasley entourage as he greets her, hand stretching out to shake. “Come to get a signed copy of _‘Magical Me’_ , did you?

River Song takes it delicately, tightening her grip slowly as she steps even closer, chuckling darkly. “Never, Gildy. If I ever buy a copy of your deplorable autobiography, it will be to expressly _burn_ it.”

Harry stares at her in awe, barely listening as Hermione asks Ron, “Who is _that?_ ”

“Professor Song,” Ron says as Lockhart continues speaking, beaming at the confrontation. “Mum hates her.”

The photographer snaps photo after photo as Lockhart replies, “Too bad you have none of your own books to publish.”

“Oh, mine are published in the muggle world, darling – not that you’d read muggle literature. I’m afraid the Wizarding just isn’t ready for science-fiction,” River laughs, her laugh belly-low and free as she discards Lockhart’s hand. “Now, why don’t you do me a favour, love and proclaim my new job title – I know you know it. You applied for it too, after all. Got a big, fat _no_ from the Headmaster once he saw my name on the list of candidates.”

Hermione gasps.

“Are you our new Defence teacher?” Harry asks aloud, unable to believe his luck. River turns to face him, pausing momentarily before her the corners of her lips curls upwards.

“Looking forwards to it?”

Harry smiles widely, letting out a laugh that is swallowed by the rampant noise from the surrounding crowd, River completely hijacking Lockhart’s book signing. He doesn’t even mind how Molly pulls him backwards as the crowd surges, too ecstatic – too _relieved_. There will be a time traveller at Hogwarts, this year and not only that, but it’s his mum’s _wife_.

“That beastly woman,” Molly mutters as their group heads towards the shop entrance, away from the rampaging elephants. “So _uncouth_.”

“I disagree,” Mr Granger says, looking thoughtful. “I thought I recognised her – Melody Malone, right dear?”

“She can’t be,” Mrs Granger disagrees. “Her first book came out in the thirties!”

“Professor Song is older than she looks,” Arthur interjects cheerfully. “All wizards are, usually. It’s a point of pride. Witches are another matter.”

“She’s a harlot,” Molly scowls. “Naturally aging is world-kept tradition for witches.”

“Don’t call her a harlot again in front of me,” Harry interrupts, Molly straightening at his words. Harry’s face is like stone. “Her name is River Song and she’s amazing.”

“Now, Harry, dear-” Molly starts, but Harry shakes his head wildly.

“Don’t. You have _no_ idea who she is and- and-”

“And I can defend myself,” River interrupts quietly. Harry’s head snaps up, their eyes meeting before he looks back at the crowd, still crowding what must have been a past or future version of her. “Harold.”

Harry’s attention locks solely on the River Song in front of him.

“Time travel is tricky,” she says, stepping closer and leaning down, closer to his height. “And I know you’re bursting to tell me who you are the moment you step foot in Hogwarts this year, but you need to have patience.”

“Patience for what?”

“That your mother can find us both,” River says, eyes flashing. “I’ve lived in the Wizarding World for decades and not once has she shown her face. It’ll happen – but not soon. I was given a ride here and I don’t have a ride out; not a reliable ride, anyway.”

She winks and Harry can’t help the panicked burble of laughter, “She’s a better driver, these days.”

“I know, sweetie,” River raises a hand carefully, stroking Harry’s cheek like he’s something precious. “Just have patience and be careful. I have to go, now.”

Harry can’t help it. He lurches forwards, wrapping her in a tight hug. It’s the first time they’ve met, but his mother’s feelings were infectious, while they were together still. Every story, every complaint and devoted whisper about the infamous River Song was absorbed and catalogued. Harry’s stomach flips at the smell of her hair, like flowers and he _feels_ her; time swirls around her, oh-so familiar and making him want to weep for home, for his mother and the TARDIS.

River squeezes him tight before letting go. It’s all to quick for Harry, who fidgets but stays back, not knowing if another hug or just… _clinginess_ in general would be appreciated. Her hand brushes through his hair, thumb scraping over his hairline.

“The me that you’re going to meet properly soon, is going to learn to love you very, _very_ easily, that I assure you,” River states, smiling softly, her eyes crinkling. “I could love anything that woman made, even that maniac, Jenny. I’m surprised she doesn’t get into more trouble than she does, that girl.”

“Jenny?” Harry’s shoulders straighten, his eyes widening. “You’ve met Jenny?”

“Of course.” River winks, before stepping back and lifting her wrist. She raises her opposing finger to her lips, eyes sparkling before she slams her hand down on the big button of her vortex manipulator, disappearing with a crackle of energy. Behind her, Draco Malfoy and a woman who can only be his mother stare at the empty space.

“What in Merlin’s name was _that?_ ” Draco questions.

Harry stares vacantly at the empty air and then beams. “That, Malfoy, was my step-mother.”

* * *

An explanation of events had been given to the Weasley family as a group a week after he originally arrived, alien origin included, so it isn’t hard to elaborate on his family dynamic when demanded of him – though they take that with a pinch more salt than River’s time-travelling antics. Molly looks the most troubled by it, but Percy insightfully suggests it’s because she doesn’t want to hate Harry’s step-mother just because of a few spats with her favourite author.

An upside to the event is that the Granger’s were able to convince Molly to give back four out of five copies of the Lockhart set; Harry had insisted on paying for his own and he volunteered to let them use his, an offer that was eagerly accepted by the Weasley children. Hermione was not so turned and even now, spending the weekend at Ron’s house before school begins again, she’s flipping through _Voyages with Vampires_ in her spare time.

“River once dived off a skyscraper and landed in the Tardis swimming pool,” Harry tells Ginny, who by this time is as hero-worshipping of River as he is. “Mum- or _Dad_ , then, I suppose, he said he wouldn’t always be there to catch her and she called him out as the bloody liar he was who’ll _always_ be there to catch her.”

Ginny has dreamy eyes as she sighs. “Your parents sound like they love each other a lot.”

“They do,” Harry rests his head on his hands. “I _really_ hope River likes me. What will happen if she doesn’t like me?”

Ginny chuffs him. “We _saw_ her, remember? She said she would.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t mess it up. What if I say something stupid? What if she thinks I’m just some over-eager second year?” Harry looks hopefully at Ginny. “Could you help me tell her?”

Ginny arches an eyebrow at him.

Ron, a little way off doing the last of his summer homework on a tiny table on the grass, snorts. “Buck up and do it yourself, mate. What will she think of you if you get Ginny to do it? Anyway, _I’m_ your best mate. I’ll be there as back-up in case your balls shrivel up.”

“I’m telling mum you said _balls!_ ” Ginny immediately exclaims.

“ _You_ just said it, too,” Ron points out hotly.

Harry rolls his eyes. “If this is what it’s like to have siblings of a similar age, I’m lucky me and Jen are so far apart.”

“Isn’t your sister two years younger than you?” Hermione queries, gaze briefly flicking upwards from her book.

“She was born fully grown, so it doesn’t matter, unless she regenerates to my height.” Harry frowns, wondering. “I don’t know what would happen if she regenerated. She might not be able to. The Breath of Life was a powerhouse of terraforming gases, jumpstarting her regenerative abilities, but she’s not…”

“Not like you?” Ginny asks, head tilting. “You said you looked into a rip in time and space.”

“A stabilised rip in time and space,” Harry replies, nodding despite his unease. “Jenny just opened the Tardis doors during a stop-pit in the Vortex when no-one was around to push her brain to get going. By all means, she should be able to regenerate, but it wasn’t as if she had the whole Academy to monitor her while she was changing, not like I did. They usually taper off how much energy a Time Lord receives or gives them more, if they’re lacking.”

“How many lives have you got, after this?” Ron asks.

“Fifteen, as a tribute to my mother. Giving me the normal thirteen lives would have been fine, but they insisted. They had great expectations,” Harry shuts his eyes, thinking back to Post-War Gallifrey and how they’d lived there a year before he decided to go to the Academy, to be like his mother and learn how the universe worked.

 _Learnt none of that, in the end,_ Harry thinks to himself, playing with a string of daisies he’d made earlier. _I wished I could have stayed._

There was the obvious problem, though: namely, him being a hybrid. He remembers seeing it in the Untempered Schism, all of time and none of it – yet seeing the most likely path anyway and understanding that the High Council would have killed him in cold blood, for fear of what he could become. His mother would have torn the new High Council apart and installed herself as a dictator, until she found someone who could take over in her place and went back to travelling all of time and space. She would have been alone for centuries, trying to get past her hurt.

Harold didn’t want that for his mother. Never. Never ever. Better he run than let that happen to her.

The daisies in his hands are destroyed. Harry hadn’t even noticed. Dropping them onto the grass, he draws up his knees and sits with his friends in the quiet, Ginny eventually leaving to go bother Fred and George.

 _I just…_ Harry rubs his stinging eyes, unable to stop the tears from falling. _I just want my mum. Please. Please, find me soon. Find me, **please**._

* * *

“It’s ridiculous – it must be that house-elf again, the one insisting the Dementor will find Harry again,” Molly scoffs, arms folded across her chest. Harry and Ron wait on seats against a nearby wall as she talks to the Auror. Harry admits, the Auror Corps get to wear a snazzy uniform, all red with gold tassels and buttons.

_Shiny._

“You’re not the only parents who were caught out by the closed barrier,” the Auror says, glancing at Harry and Ron. “I’m sure your sons have nothing to do with it.”

Harry glances at the Auror through his long fringe, before sighing. “My name is Harry Potter,” he says, loud enough to be heard. The Auror freezes, quill nearly snapping in two if the creak is anything to go by.

“Harry Potter?” They repeat it back to him louder. It attracts the attention of several other Aurors around the office, before the Auror in charge of interviewing them prods the air with their quill end, pointing. “You don’t look like Harry Potter.”

“It’s called a backfired blood adoption,” Harry says shortly, wondering if the Auror Corps has a good enough gossip grapevine as Hogwarts does. “I’m known as Harold Harkness, elsewhere. I don’t know if that includes the Ministry, but I still sign my name as Harry Potter, so people know who they’re talking to.”

“…right. Right. Harry Potter, Harkness, house-elf…” the Auror mutters, scribbling all the down. Harry looks to his knees, wondering if the whole world is about to find out he’s not who they believe him to be. After being the Boy-Who-Lived for a year, he’d started getting used to it; his face had been in the papers for months following the incident with the dementors.

He’d been the first person to ever survive being Kissed by a dementor and it was by pure chance. According to Dobby – Dobby being the crazy house-elf that ruined Vernon Dursley’s business deal and blamed Harry, getting him beaten and knocked around even more than he already had been – the dementor who originally attacked Harry and ate the horcrux, that _same_ dementor had come to his Master’s home. It had eaten his Master’s soul in an attempt to access the ‘Secret Room of Dark Things’, as Dobby called it. Only Dobby’s Mistress summoning a Patronus stopped the dementor from sucking out their son’s soul, too.

“Oh, I do hope no-one is fretting on the train,” Molly shakes her head, coming over to them to hug them tightly. “Ginny, Hermione and the twins are probably worried where you are.”

Harry hums his agreement, Ron muttering something that sounds like a complaint about getting hugged in public. Molly, in answer to Ron’s grumbles, hugs them harder.


	10. Chapter 10

“Bio-tracking!” The Doctor exclaims, hurrying jauntily around the console, leaning over to flick switches and look from tiny projection to tiny projection. “And this time, it won’t be in a way that Harold can prevent. He rigged the Tardis, see, so I can’t use my own DNA as a boost to find him.”

“But we can use mine, can’t we, Doc?” Jack says unnecessarily, watching her approach. He offers her his hand, the Doctor being strangely gentle as she takes it, pausing before jabbing him with a needle. His blood in hand, she turns back to her console. Jenny crosses her arms, strangely proud as she watches on. Jack guesses the reason why. “Did you give up, before?”

“…no, just got in a bit of a rut,” the Doctor says, gaze flickering in his direction once – twice. “I was stuck.”

“It’s alright, Doctor – you don’t have to justify yourself to me,” Jack says genuinely, raising his hands up. “You just find him.”

The Doctor watches him for a moment longer, eyes dark in the dim light. Then, she pulls down a lever and they’re off, the turbulence slightly worse than before – but hardly the gravity-bending, unrivalled _mess_ of her tenth self’s driving skill. Jack reaches forwards though, still grabbing on. Jenny leans against a crystal, unfazed.

“Bit bumpy – I didn’t specify a time period, but the Tardis should help sort it out a bit. If we get him later, after he’s come back from the Arch, even better-” the Doctor says, before they land with a short _thud_ and what feels like a skid. The Doctor leans in towards one of her tiny projections that glow orange, Gallifreyan passing across her face like a shadow. Her face immediately goes blank.

“Luna University, fifty-third century,” she says, quiet. “I haven’t been here in a while.”

“Mum?” Jenny steps forwards abruptly, arms uncrossing and her face creasing in concern. “What is it? What happened the last time you were here?”

“The last time?” the Doctor repeats, looking a little boggled as she straightens, eyes going out of focus. “The latest I ever came here…oh, it was so long ago,” she runs a hand through her hair, shaking her head as she faces them both. “I genuinely have no idea. I’ve been here thousands of times, visiting my wife.”

“Your _wife?_ ” Jack repeats, catching Jenny’s eyes go wide.

“Are you talking about-”

“Yeah,” the Doctor waves Jenny off, “Her. I know. I think it’s late, though – she’s already left for the Library by now. It’s a year later. Harold’s here on the moon, somewhere. That’s what’s important.”

She steps towards the doors and Jack wants to say _woah, slow down_ and ask _who was your wife, Doctor?_ But it’s neither the time nor place; the Doctor is focused, booted feet treading a path Jack can’t help but follow. It’s just like old times, except – _except_ …this is about their son. It’s about Harold Harkness. Harold Roranicus Harkness.

Jack takes a steadying breath.

_I have a son._

He knows that before realising that the mother was the Doctor, he knew he wouldn’t be top priority in his child’s life. He knew that the mother promised to visit with them – he has assumed that meant when they were born, actually or at least when they were in the equivalent of high school and a curious teenager, wanting to know where they came from. Now, though, it’s all flipped upside down.

 _She lied to me,_ he thinks, _and for what? I’m the Doctor’s friend, I always will be. Why couldn’t she have been honest?_ Jack just wants to know his son now, because he’s driven to find out what kind of person he has become. Why would he run away? What’s so wrong about his relationship with his mother that he would even consider it?

The TARDIS doors open out into a garden under a glass dome. It’s medium-sized and an actual garden – not a farm. There are flowers, trees, fruits and bushes, all from Earth and up above, Jack can see Earth, half in shadow from the sun in the West.

“The University Communal Garden, number four. He should be somewhere nearby,” the Doctor says quietly, some wandering students looking at the TARDIS funny before a pair of female humanoids walk in their direction, talking quietly to each other before splitting off; one going back down the path they just trod and the second walking towards them, holding a blue journal in hand.

“Hi, how are you?” she says, coming right up to them and hugging the Doctor tightly. The Doctor, blinking rapidly, hugs her back, puffing strawberry blonde curls out of her face.

“A little busy, to be honest,” the Doctor replies breezily, before the woman steps back, brow furrowing.

“Mum? What’s going on?”

Jack stares at the girl, thinking, _we tracked my DNA._ “Harold?” He asks, tentative. The woman frowns at him.

“I haven’t gone by that in public for decades. Dad, is there something wrong? Really? You don’t have to keep it from me – I’m doing okay, here. I’m assistant to Professor D’lu and everything.” The newly-identified Harold looks between them quickly, eyes falling on Jenny. “Why is no-one saying anything?”

“Oh, sweetheart, look at you,” the Doctor says in a hush, amazement clear, attracting her attention once again. “I must say, this is _definitely_ spoilers, seeing you this old already. I’m looking for eight-year old Harold.”

The woman’s eyes go wide. “ _What?_ ” she squeaks, clutching her journal to her chest extra tight, tucking it into the inside pocket of her jacket; it doesn’t make a dent, so Jack automatically believes it’s another jacket with Time Lord engineering in the pockets. “I didn’t know you came and visited me!”

“I won’t tell you then,” the Doctor replies immediately, “so long as you tell me where to find you, back then.”

“Mum, you know I can’t-”

“When do I find you? What time, what place?” the Doctor interrupts, taking a step forwards to take her hands. “I’m desperate, I’m _so_ worried about you and I’d really, _really_ like to find you and get you home.”

 _This is just hurting her,_ Jack thinks, watching how the grown-up Harold looks to be on the brink of tears from guilt. _Did she understand what she put her mom through before now?_

“Mum-” she chokes, eyes glistening. “You- I- I don’t know how you found us. You never told me.”

“I would have told you,” the Doctor immediately insists. “If I had a story, if I had a big, fancy tale to tell about the time it took to find you, I would have told you…unless you didn’t want to hear it.”

“No,” Harold says, shaking her head and lifting a hand to her eyes, wiping her face. “No, I wanted to know. It was always a big mystery. I guess I see why. October thirty-first, Halloween, nineteen ninety-three; Earth.”

The Doctor is practically vibrating with anticipation. Jack’s heart is in his mouth. _Halloween, ’93._

“Can you be a bit more specific on the location, or will the bio-tracker do just as well?”

“The defences won’t let you through on bio-tracker alone,” Harold looks behind them at the TARDIS, free hand squeezing her mother’s. “I did always wonder why it was fuzzy. Everyone else told me it was epic. I was hearing different renditions of it for months.”

“Defences?” Jenny queries.

For the first time since she realised who they are, Harold smiles. “Ever heard of quantum energy, before? The kind of quantum energy used in quantum mnemonics?”

“Ooh!” the Doctor immediately bounces, grinning back at her. “Are we going to Hogwarts? I did always like that place, up until they barred the Tardis.”

“I was a student there,” Harold says happily, “I can get you past the wards.”

“ _Hog-warts_?” Jack drawls, sceptical. Harold rolls her eyes at him, still smiling.

“The Founders were drunk; Mum should know – she’s the one that dared them to steal from a group of Silurians when they were sloshed. The fact that they actually did it should be proof enough.”

“I should not be held accountable for that,” the Doctor shakes her head. “Rowena insisted.”

Harold looks faintly non-plussed as the last part registers, like she’s hearing about her childhood hero from an obnoxious time traveller’s mouth – as many in the Doctor’s fellowship have, in the past. Jack steps forwards, reaching out to clap a hand on her shoulder. Harold meets his eyes.

“I’ve not met you before this at all,” Jack tells her quietly, “so, as nice as it is to call you by your given name, you said something earlier about not being called that anymore. What do we call you?”

She bites her lip out of habit, placing a hand over his own. Her expression turns soft.

“Then it’s lovely to meet you, Dad.”

“You too, sweetheart,” he can’t help but say, pulling her hand to press against his heart.

She smiles.

“Rosie Arthur – Rosie Arthur _Jones_.

* * *

Madam Pince watches him with pressed lips. “Be careful,” she snaps as he shuts his book hard enough for it to _thump_ loudly.

“Sorry.” He scowls at _Travels with Trolls_ , by Gilderoy Lockhart. A picture of the man winks at him repeatedly as he faux-runs from a coloured pencil rendering of a mountain troll. “It’s complete rubbish.”

“It’s still a book,” Madam Pince mutters darkly, though Harry thinks she sounds like she agrees.

“Why couldn’t we have stuck with Bathilda Bagshot?” Harry mutters rhetorically as he puts it back in his backpack. River Song was right – the only reason to buy it is to use it as kindling.

Gilderoy Lockhart, upon not gaining the Defence position, had gone for the next-easiest spot: History of Magic. It hadn’t taken much to convince the Board of Governors to give him the post, letting Professor Binns linger as a lecturer for the droning-inclined. Or at least, that was what Draco said – Draco Malfoy, who is now their new friend at his mother’s insistence.

“Her text is horribly outdated,” Madam Pince replies with her nose in the air, eyeing him balefully. “I thought you would have been happy to have new material to study.”

“Not when it’s _fake,_ ” Harry answers scornfully. “I can’t believe we’ll really have _exams_ on this.”

“Oh, that won’t be the case,” Madam Pince interjects, crossing her arms stiffly. “He’s not been in the position long enough. Only professors on tenure can change exam papers to suit their courses. Pomona only managed to change the curriculum to suit her and the students’ needs eight years ago.”

Harry stares at her in horror. “ _What?_ ” he exclaims, the sound travelling through the library. The few other students in the library nearby look up, surprised he would be so loud in front of the Demon Librarian.

Madam Pince, conversely, smirks at his expression. “I’d use your extra study time to look up the second year history curriculum, if I were you. Now, get to breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry,” Harry says faintly, but he does leave the library. In something of a daze, Harry walks the halls of Hogwarts, belatedly following a frazzled Hermione to double Transfiguration.

“Ron’s left his bag in the Tower,” she huffs when he asks, eyeing the literal sparks that are puffing up her corkscrew curls. “I can’t believe he forgot it on the second day! He’s so _lazy_ sometimes.”

“You should see our room,” Harry snorts. “Molly had to summon all his laundry three times because he couldn’t be bothered to put it in the basket.”

Hermione rolls her eyes, but the sparks die down – though, not in time for Draco not to see. The Slytherin falls into step with them silently, his eyes flickering between Hermione and the classroom door. Harry swallows. He doesn’t know what to think about his nemesis anymore. It doesn’t help that they’re only in this forced-friends situation because that moment in Diagon Alley after Harry met River – _twice_ – was the first time Draco had spoken in weeks and only time since.

“Your mum write you again?” Harry asks him awkwardly, half-teasing. Draco nods, silent. “Must be annoying, having her write twice in a row.”

Draco shrugs.

Hermione looks at her neighbour sceptically. “You know, you don’t _have_ to hang out with us. I’m sure the rest of Slytherin could be accommodating.”

As Draco scowls at her, Harry looks at said second year Slytherins. He winces. “Too late for that, I think.” Crabbe and Goyle are glaring at them, when not looking at Harry funny. He guesses it’s the changes – ‘Harry Potter’ isn’t a brown-eyed brunette after all.

Hermione huffs before they enter the classroom. Draco sits with Harry and to most of the class’ surprise, rather than sit with the others in her house, Pansy Parkinson sits with Hermione. The girls look at each frostily, Hermione narrowing her eyes.

“What?” Pansy sneers, slanted eyes challenging Hermione to tell her to go away. Harry and Draco both watch with frozen expressions of suspicion.

“What is she doing?” Harry asks Draco in a murmur, the blonde boy shaking his head in confusion.

“Draco’s mother is terrifying and I don’t blame him for having to spend time with you lions – but I’m not leaving him alone,” Pansy hisses before putting her bag down under the desk. Hermione looks to Harry, frantic. Harry tries to motion to her in a way that says, _the ball is in your court, do what you want._

Harry watches as his friend seemingly comes to the decision to let Pansy be, before realising that the only places left to sit are either with Neville or singled out at the front of the class.

 _Ron’s not going to happy about this,_ he thinks, before Professor McGonagall begins the register.


	11. Chapter 11

“Fascinating – you react most negatively to willow-based potions.”

Harry glances up, attention briefly turning away from his herbology essay. “It’s the salicylic acid. It’s lethal to my kind in concentrated doses.”

Professor Snape hums lowly, turning off the magnification charm that shows him the close-up view of Harry’s blood reacting to his sample of a healing potion. “A fatal weakness. You shall have to avoid many pain-killers. We’re very lucky calming potions no longer have willow bark as active ingredients. I’ll update your medical records appropriately in the likely case that you end up in the hospital wing once more – Poppy, in her efforts to return your former consciousness, will at least avoid poisoning you that way.”

Harry scowls at the mention of the matron. “I don’t like her,” he says shortly.

The potions master pays him no mind, returning to his studies. In an attempt to preserve his own health in the future, Harry had given the man leave to experiment with a pint of his blood so he was never, as Snape put it, ‘poisoned’. Harry likes to say it plainly – _murdered_. A terrorist with still-alive-followers was out to kill him as a child and got bonked by unknown sources, Dumbledore thinks he’s some kind of malicious invading spirit taking refuge in Harry Potter’s body and the dementor that removed the soul-shard in his head is _still_ roaming the countryside.

Harry half-expects to be offed any day now, by accident or on purpose, so he wants to know what biological substances can actually harm him here on Earth. The single one he knows about is aspirin, a salicylic acid-based painkiller and even then, only because it’s seemingly harmless – _especially_ when offered by ignorant companions onboard the TARDIS.

“What do you think of Professor Song?” Professor Snape asks him suddenly, suspiciously genial.

Harry narrows his eyes, pursing his lips as he thinks. _While it’s no secret that the dementor invaded Gringotts recently, neither_ _is it a secret that I’m avoiding River._

“She’s amazing,” he replies flatly. “Why do you want to know?”

“You’re meant to be in detention with me right now for ‘inappropriate behaviour’,” Snape pierces him with a glare. “Song asked me to speak to you about decorum and why staring at women is frowned upon. However…I know who she is to you. Draco’s mother made me aware of the circumstances.”

Harry stares briefly then groans, head thumping down onto his essay. “Really?” he asks, voice muffled against the parchment.

“ _Really_ ,” Snape confirms. “Narcissa and I have been having afternoon tea for over a decade. Lucius Malfoy sponsored me when I joined the Potioneering Guild. She would not lie to me. Time travel really does run in the family with you, doesn’t it?”

“I told you,” Harry grumbles, “we’re called _Time Lords_ for a reason.”

“You _did_ tell me, yes. Narcissa also told me that you were ecstatic upon meeting with Professor Song’s future self – why have you not told the present-day version your truth?”

“The staff not introduced her to the gossip circle yet?” Harry questions in return, not wanting to talk about it. He points at the professor with his quill. “I know about the staff party you all have at New Years! It’s Madam Pince’s year to spike the punch!”

Snape’s eyebrow quirks. “Is it? I was wondering. I’ll be sure to inform Madam Hooch. Now, inform me as to why you are stalling, Mr Harkness.”

Harry squirms in his seat. “Any way I can avoid answering that?”

“No,” Snape replies, folding his arms across his chest. “Would you rather I schedule a detention for you with her? Or a meeting to ‘apologise’, as it were?”

“I just- I don’t know what to say,” Harry says, ashamed. “I’m a secret and she’s my mum’s _wife._ Mum’s _way_ past her, timeline-wise and- and I don’t know everything that went on. I don’t know when she is, what versions of my mum she knows-”

“Regenerations?”

“Yeah, regenerations – new life, new face.” Harry fidgets, putting his quill down and stoppering his ink, twisting the cork unnecessarily, trying to distract himself. “It’s hard. Mum was supposed to do this, if it ever happened.”

“Stop procrastinating.” The professor orders him, tone brooking no argument. “The moment you made the decision to hide from your mother and willingly take control of not only your fate, but of others’, you made it your own responsibility to be on top of these things. If Professor Song is a reasonable adult – and as an old acquaintance of hers, I know she _is_ reasonable – then she should be angry at your mother for her deception, not you.”

Harry fidgets.

Snape narrows his eyes. “What else is there?”

“My mum…my mum wasn’t always a woman,” Harry winces at the indelicate way he’s explaining this. “Regeneration is about _everything_ changing, but Mum’s always been…well, _Dad_ before. River’s never met _her_ , always _him_.”

“…I see,” Professor Snape makes his way around his desk, leaning against it as Harry finally shifts properly at his desk by the wall of Snape’s office to face him. “Gender is easy to change, in the Wizarding World, Harkness. Potions, transfigurations – there are ways. Professor Song has lived here decades and if she does not know of these ways, then she is less knowledgeable than I previously determined; and again, she should be angry at your mother for her deception, not you.”

“Are you always this good at talking to people?”

“Just my students,” Snape freely admits, shrugging. “It is Friday evening. She should be in her classroom overseeing any detentions as the first on the schedule. Would you like my assistance in informing Professor Song of your relation?”

Harry thinks about it. He imagines River at her desk in the DADA professor’s office, feather quill in hand as she marks homework. Maybe she has a bookcase full of titles or a picture of Lockhart she throws darts at for fun. Snape would be at his back and Harry would say: “ _I’m a Time Lord. You married the Doctor and they regenerated into a woman, my mother._ ”

“Okay,” he eventually says, a little more enthused. “Can we go see her?”

“We can. Pack up your belongings, Mr Harkness.” Professor Snape gestures to his essay, taking out his wand to dry the wet ink instantly. Harry rushes to put his things away, wrapping his inky quill and tucking everything away into his satchel. He nearly forgets his discarded robe until he sees it hanging over the back of his chair. Snape tuts at the sight.

“I was too hot,” Harry excuses himself.

Snape raises an eyebrow. “In the _dungeons?_ ”

“I’m an alien-human hybrid – give me some credit,” Harry grins. “I’m just weird like that!”

* * *

His enthusiasm wanes when faced with her classroom door. Professor Snape takes away his ability to procrastinate by knocking, a faint _come in_ further reducing Harry’s time to think. The door opens without them having to turn the knob, Professor Song at the other end of the classroom flicking her wand to close it as they enter.

“Professor Snape, Mr Harkness – to what do I owe the pleasure?” she grins, curls abundant – they sit in a veritable halo around her hair, tumbling over the shoulders of her resplendent, electric blue robes. “Detention over so soon?”

“Mr Harkness would like a word. In private, if possible.”

River raises an eyebrow. “As you can see,” she waves her hand towards the half dozen sixth-years in red and green sitting on either sides of the room, “I’m overseeing a detention. Fighting in the corridors, would you believe it?”

“Between these students? Certainly. I would be willing to spend the rest of the evening with these plebeian witches and wizards if it means not dealing with this ruffian,” Snape gestures to Harry, who crosses his arms.

“I’m not a ruffian.”

“My apologies,” Snape demurs, “I meant _arrogant toerag of a boy._ ”

“I’m not a toerag, either,” Harry mutters, more than a little insulted.

River gets up from behind her desk, a smaller smile than before plastered across her face as her eyes dart between them.

“I can spare a minute. My office, Mr Harkness?”

Harry startles. “Your- yes. Yes. Sorry, just coming.” Harry scurries across the class, following River up the spiral staircase to her office. River opens the door for him and he enters, not sure what to expect. What he finds is different from the image he had in his head, though. There might be a bookshelf full to the brim and a desk, but it’s far more personal than he realised it would be.

The walls are full with shelves, for one, over all the normal items of furniture. They curve in a way that tells him the office is in a tower, the wooden planks set in even levels that strain in the middle under the weight of the artefacts and knick-knacks River has placed on them. Broken tablets from ancient civilisations – past and future – snow-globes from planets across the universe, a plethora of tokens and other random items all litter the shelves. Harry stares in awe for what seems like forever, until River speaks.

“I’ve been to many places over the years. Each is a reminder of an adventure I’ve been on – each thing is special,” she says, sounding more uncomfortable than happy. Harry looks at her and realises she looks _tired_ , even though there is a certain fondness in her eyes as they dart from item to item. But the look leaves her soon enough and River focuses on him. “What was it you wanted to tell me?”

Harry is speechless. River, at least, seems to recognise that. She inclines her head towards her desk and they both go to sit, Harry fidgeting with his bag strap, wondering if Ron has forgiven him yet for sitting next to Draco in all their classes.

“The detention outside really is _my_ responsibility, you know,” River says, prodding him verbally as a reminder that their time is limited. Harry sucks in a breath before nodding, lungs full of air.

 _I could hold my breath for over ten minutes and still be fine,_ he thinks, shutting his eyes for a few seconds before letting it all out in a rush – just like all the words that escape from his mouth.

“My name is Harold and I’ve been waiting to meet you for years now, but I’m lost and I was trying to save my mum from a future she didn’t know about, but would have accepted even if it meant becoming someone she _never_ would have wanted to be,” Harry says, not even giving River a moment to process what he’s saying before continuing. “I was disguised as a human until a few months ago and I’m really only eight and a half, except I’m not because I have an extra eleven years on that – except I’m back to my old physiology and- and that’s not the point.”

River, as he speaks, goes blank. Her eyes are bright and alight, taking in everything he’s saying, but her face is stone. She doesn’t blink, let alone react. Harry just keeps on talking, so very nervous, babbling as he tries to get to the point.

“The point is- the _point_ is that my mum is out there somewhere and _you know her_ , you do and it’s so hard because you’ve not met her as she is nowadays, except nowadays is difficult because I ran away and stole our home before programming it to pick me up in the future, then go back to my mum. Except it’s too far in the future and I was supposed to be under the chameleon arc _so_ much longer than eleven years. But then my adoptive parents died and I’m so sad _and_ glad that they did, because my adoptive mother saved my human self from an instant death spell and I just want my mum and you’re River Song and I thought you could help me, _please_.”

Then Harry finally – _finally_ – stops speaking. River doesn’t reply for a long twelve point seven seconds, but when she does, Harry deflates like a balloon.

“Who’s your mother?” River asks, voice delicate. “Because if we haven’t met yet, I don’t know how I can help. Time travel is fickle, but you’re old enough to know about basic paradoxes-”

“You’re her _wife!_ ” Harry exclaims, leaning forwards in his chair, hands clutching the edge of her desk. “You got married in an alternate timeline and on four hundred other planets! I’ve seen the photo album, I’ve even _been_ there when the Doctor was happy! The Doctor! I need to find the _Doctor_!”

River’s façade cracks and she looks confused, baffled as she leans forwards. “Mr Harkness,” she says, then she stops so very suddenly, staring at him like a revelation has occurred. “Harkness. Like…”

“Captain Jack Harkness is my dad,” Harry says, pressing forwards, wanting to hear her say _I’ll help you_ , “a sperm donor for my mum. I’d never met you before that book-signing in _Flourish and Blotts_ , but I’ve always wanted to. Mum always told the best stories. My favourites were always the ones about how she’d catch you in the Tardis when you jumped off buildings.”

He sees when her breath catches – when her eyes go wide and she stands up, hands splayed over the wood of the desk.

“The Tardis?” she asks, voice strangled. “You- the Doctor-”

Harry bites his tongue, stopping himself from speaking as he finally tries to speak properly and most importantly, _clearly_.

“My mum is the Doctor,” he says explicitly, “and my name is Harold Roranicus Harkness. I was called Harry Potter before I opened my watch that housed my Time Lord consciousness and physiology. I used the chameleon arc in my mother’s Tardis and she- the Tardis, she helped me reprogram her to leave, pick me up twenty eighty and then return to my mother if I missed the pick-up.”

“Why would you _do_ that? You’re a child.” River asks him, voice pained as she repeats her own words quietly. “Why would you do that?”

“I looked into the Untempered Schism and I saw the future,” Harry says. River stands there, watching him with eyes filled with such anguish that it hurts to look. He stares at her desk. “I’m a hybrid. There’s a stupid prophecy – one that Mum has lost companions over, in the past. They would have destroyed me and Mum-”

“Loves you,” River interrupts softly. “She loves you, of course she does. She never would have stood for it. Oh, _sweetie_ …”

Harry’s hearts skip a beat each because of that word. He’s only ever heard _stories_ about being called ‘sweetie’ and now, as she says it, Harry doesn’t know if River is talking about him or his mother.

“There was a different future where she took control of Gallifrey and ran it with an iron fist,” Harry admits, peeking up at her. “But I didn’t want that for her. She’s not like that.”

“No,” River says, staring at him, looking at his features in a way that is no longer familiar; people used to look at Harry Potter like this, looking for James and Lily. It’s euphoric, realising River is looking for signs of _the_ _Doctor_ , his mother, traits from when she was as a man and maybe Jack Harkness too, if they’ve ever met.

“Can you help me find her?” he asks, waiting – hoping.

“I can damn well try, my darling,” River says and her words are a promise as she leans over her desk, hand cupping his outstretched face. She smiles at him, eyes crinkling and it’s strange, but Harry thinks she looks more than just happy – she looks relieved. “We _will_ find her. Together.”


	12. Chapter 12

They start meeting after classes, when River isn’t in charge of detentions and Harry isn’t studying or practicing Quidditch. Oliver is determined to win the Cup this year and Harry is happy to help him; flying is still a rush and if he feints hard enough, flying at breakneck speed towards the ground, the world blurs like he’s flying though the Vortex.

River isn’t so happy to see him playing, of course. “It’s dangerous. You would not _believe_ some of the injuries I’ve seen at some professional games.”

Harry bounces in his seat on the sofa, munching on a biscuit. “How many have you seen?”

“Oh, over a dozen,” River smiles at him over tea. “I’ve lived in the Wizarding World since Dumbledore was young. He’s always been very curious as to how I stay so young. He asked me to keep an eye on you at the beginning of the year, did you know?”

“Did he?” Harry frowns, disgruntled. “He thinks I’m some terrible being that’s taken over Harry Potter’s body.”

“But you _are_ Harry Potter,” River hums, clearly thinking as she sips her Earl Grey. “I see. Do you plan on informing the world of our certain connection? Because if you do, rumours of your own eternal youth might spring up.”

“Well, I _am_ eternally youthful, compared to wizards. I won’t be a teenager for another hundred years. Will they think you did it to me, if I called you my mum in public?” River’s expression is queer at the word ‘mum’. Harry wonders if it’s too soon, watching her cheeks turn pink, her eyes looking anywhere but him. He bites his lip. “Can I? Or do I call you ‘River’ or ‘Professor’ or-”

“You can call me whatever you like, sweetie,” River interrupts, looking at her teacup. “I don’t mind. On the contrary, I never quite thought I’d have a chance at having a family. It’s…surprising, still. Every time I think about you…”

“I’ll call you ‘professor’ in public,” Harry decides, giving her a chance to back out. “But, if you want, I can call you by your name, otherwise.”

“For now,” River replies, leaning further back in her seat and hiding her face in her tea as Harry sits up sharply.

“Really?”

“Call me what you will, Harold,” River says softly.

“Mum,” Harry says the word out loud, finding it strange to say it in reference to anyone other than, well…his _mum_. River being his other mum is odd. Not bad, just…odd. “Nice to meet you, Mum.”

River’s cheeks are rosy and she smiles like she can’t help herself, flustered. “Nice to meet you, too, Harold.”

“I like being called Harold again,” Harry says with a small, content sigh to himself. River leans slightly, stage-whispering.

“I’ve always loved it when my own mummy calls me Melody. Even dear old Dad called me River to my face.”

“Was it weird, having them for parents? Mum told me it was kind of sad.”

River’s smile fades slightly. She inclines her head. “Yes. It was sad. However, they still loved me and our relationship was unique to us. My grandfather was happy to meet me, once I could no longer see the present versions of them. I even had a chance to get to know my baby brother, Anthony.”

“Amy and Rory had another child?” Harry exclaims, not having been told that before.

River purses her lips together. “I suppose that the Doctor didn’t want to know. That’s quite like him- her, I mean. Them. They never liked endings, not ever.”

“You’re the first one of my mum’s friends I’ve met,” Harry tells her.

“What about Jack?” she asks.

“Not yet,” Harry replies. “Mum didn’t want him to know she was the Doctor. I was going to meet him when I got out of the Academy.”

Harry likes his chats with River. He hears stories he’s never heard before – or the _real_ versions of embellished tales. They always end up on the same sofa by the end of the evening, sitting in River’s little parlour off her main room by the fireplace. It goes on for the whole of September after the first week and in October and November, they migrate to Harry’s study room in the library because they begin discussing magic.

“Your wand is strange,” Harry notes, watching her tuck it into her hair.

River winks at him. “Black walnut and pine. A gift from an old student of mine – I wasn’t always a witch.”

It strikes Harry that he hadn’t realised anything was off about her being a witch. Looking at her in surprise, he blinks before asking, “How _are_ you a witch?”

“That is the question, isn’t it, _Harold?_ ” River says, putting a certain emphasis on his name. “How did you make your human self a wizard?”

“Manipulation of my biology. The chameleon arc was programmable, so I studied Lily and James Potter and…gave my human self magic. It’s actually pretty easy, just really, _really_ painful.”

“And if I told you,” River says, “that the student who gave me this wand said that the Boy-Who-Lived was the one to save me from the Library and give me magic, how do you think you’d do it?”

His hearts almost _stop_.

“No,” he breathes, staring at her. “I can’t- I _can’t_ have!”

“You must have, darling. I think you’re the only one who knows how to,” River replies, eyes dark. “No-one but you have ever given magic to another being, not that has ever been recorded. However, there _are_ ways to make new bodies. I think you’ll manage it quite easily after you’ve graduated. You’ve been studying magic outside of classtime. Your grades in Defence Against the Dark Arts are impeccable – I’m very proud of you for that, by the way.”

“Thank-you,” Harry mumbles, clutching his book on arithmancy – arithmancy being the art of spell-crafting using the new calculations for modern magic. “I _really_ resurrect you?”

“The past me, yes. Then you put me in Mr Lux’s quarters on our space-ship. I woke up in his bed – oh the horror of it,” River shudders playfully.

“Wouldn’t touch him?”

“Not for all the money in all of time and space,” River replies cheerily, elbowing him gently. “My love, don’t fret. You might have been the one to resurrect me, but I was never told you did it alone. I’ve been researching immortality in the Wizarding World for over a hundred years.” She bends, pressing her lips to his dark brown head of hair, carding her fingers through the soft strands.

Harry leans into her, staring into space. He feels excited, yet hollow. “I was the one to rescue you,” he whispers. “Not Mum. Not Mum when she was Dad – _me_.”

“I’ve made my peace with it, sweetie,” River murmurs. “I’m over five centuries old, give or take a few decades. One hundred and fifty-three years have passed since I came back.”

“But it’s not right, she’s the _Doctor._ ”

“Even the Doctor deserves rest from saving the universe, sometimes,” River says, voice sharper than before. “Out of _anyone,_ they deserve rest. The Doctor I knew the longest, the face my parents travelled with, he was ready to fall on Trenzalore, protecting the one planet that never deserved him.”

“Gallifrey.”

“Gallifrey,” River confirms, brushing through his hair again. “The day he met me, I died. I’m never going to blame him for not saving me. There was no way and he couldn’t have known, not then. I’m still trying to figure out how you’ll transfer my consciousness into a new body, to be honest.”

“Consciousness and souls are the same, here – I think it’ll be easier than you think, so long as I can figure out how to get you out of the Library. How much room does your brain take up in a computer?”

“Oh, some hundred million terabits,” River tries to say calmly, but it comes out flat.

“Right,” Harry mutters, leaning back towards the desk and his arithmancy book. He drags over a piece of parchment as he flips through the book, head spinning as he does the conversions using the chart in front of him. “Do you know the exact number?”

“I do – here,” River takes his quill, writing the long, long number down and Harry almost snatches the quill back from her. River watches him avidly. “I never studied arithmancy,” she murmurs. “I was more interested in what magic _made_ than what it was made _from_. I know the basics, but…I honestly don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I have eclectic tastes in literature,” Harry mumbles, grimacing and shaking his head. He shuts his eyes. “The calculation is too long. I can’t hold it in my head, not while I’m thinking about everything else.” He bats his forehead a few times, growling before putting his quill down forcefully. “Later. I’ll do it later, I promise. I’ll figure this out.”

“I believe you,” River encourages him, before checking her watch. “Three AM, on the dot. Don’t you still have a history essay?”

“I refuse to go to that class.”

“Good boy.”

* * *

“Bumpy,” the Doctor grimaces, wiggling a lever to stabilise it somewhat. “We’re getting thrown off-course. Not too far, but far enough.” They land with a crash, but none of the seasoned fliers fall. Together, the four of them crowd the console, waiting for the Doctor’s verdict.

“Mum?” Jenny questions, “Where are we?”

“Some place called Godric’s Hollow, nineteen eighty-one,” the Doctor says, frowning. But Rosie gasps, eyes going wide.

“No- no, we can’t be here. I’m already here, we absolutely _can’t_.”

“What happens here?” the Doctor asks her, suddenly terrified. Rosie’s expression is full of raw grief. “Rosie Jones, what happens in Godric’s Hollow?”

“Is it Halloween?” she asks in a crackly voice.

“November first,” the Doctor corrects, but Rosie is already running for the door. “Rosie-”

Rosie exits the TARDIS, rushing out onto a cold, dark street. The wind wails and the moon is blotted out by dark clouds. In front of them is a wreck of a house, tiles and bricks still falling from the second-floor corner.

“Lily, James…” Rosie stumbles forwards through the open gate. There are large, inhuman footsteps in the muddy grass. _Hagrid,_ she thinks. _He’s already been here. I’m already gone._

Entering the house, she stifles a cry behind her hand as she sees James Potter’s corpse lying in the doorway to the living room, crumpled like a broken puppet. His wand lies on the floor by his dark hand.

 _Upstairs,_ she thinks, rushing up the staircase as her family follows her into the house.

“Oh God,” Jack mutters upon seeing James. Rosie leaves him far behind, her adoptive parents’ deaths like fresh wounds on her soul.

“Lily,” Rosie whispers, coming to kneel by her body with a thud. She reaches out, pushing auburn curls behind a frigid ear. She’s not even warm – she’s cold as death. To her right is her crib and underneath it, Rosie can see the burnt-out runic configurations. It’s ancient and useless – and Rosie knows no-one can be allowed to see it.

Standing – wobbling to her feet – Rosie steps over Lily’s body, only for her mother to catch her wrist.

“Rosie,” she says, voice quiet. “Who are these people?”

“My human parents, from when I went under the chameleon arc,” Rosie whispers, pulling her wrist out of her grasp. She moves the cot, pushing the white-painted crib off the runes. The carpet is burnt away, the chalk having been written on the floorboards beneath. She rips the remains away as she speaks, using them to scrub. “Lily and James Potter. Lily vanquished a Dark Lord and all the credit went to me – _me_ , the fifteen month-old baby. It was always ridiculous.”

“What are you doing?” Jenny questions.

“Dumbledore can’t see this. The Aurors can’t see this. I don’t care if they realise someone rubbed it away – they _can’t_ see it.” Rosie shakes her head, tears running down her cheeks. She’s nearly done. Lily worked small – so very, very small. Chalk is easy to scrub away when it’s just chalk, all of Lily’s magic burning away what residue remains.

“Why can’t they?” Her mother kneels down, helping her without question. Rosie wipes her face and together, under their ministrations the chalk diagram disappears. “From what I saw, that was magic – sacrificial magic. Simple, but effective. Lily died for you.”

“She did. My younger self had _Sowilo_ carved into his forehead,” Rosie tells her, leaning sideways against the yellow nursery wall. “Magic changed, Mum. The Ancient Magic was a specialised subject, practically lost as Wardmasters used modern methods to erect wards. Ironically, purebloods were the ones keeping the knowledge from being completely lost, because their ancestral houses were warded using Ancient Magic. They’re also the only ones who could legally use that kind of magic.”

“So…Lily wasn’t a ‘pureblood’?” The Doctor questions, hesitating.

“No. She was a random occurrence of witches in a line of DNA that had previously lost the ability to store and use magic. Like her auburn hair in a family of blondes.” Rosie scrubs at her face again. “We can’t be here for too long. I don’t know when the government shows up to take a look. The Ministry can’t know that the Potter’s have access to Ancient Tomes of Magic.”

“But _why?”_ The Doctor exclaims, “You’ve not said, in all your talking and misdirection! Rosie, _Harold_ – tell me the truth. Please. Don’t lie to me.”

Rosie reaches out to take her mother’s hand, squeezing tightly. “Because one day,” she says, “I’m going to bring someone back to life and I’m going to need those books. I’m going to need every scrap House Potter can give me. Didn’t you wonder why you found me at Luna University?”

The Doctor freezes.

Rosie smiles.

“I’m going to bring back River Song, Mother. I’ve already done it. She’s here in the Wizarding World and on the thirty-first of October, nineteen ninety-three, you’re going to see her again, standing right beside Harold Harkness – I promise you that.”

“Rosie, you can’t do that. River doesn’t even have a _body_ -”

“The Tomes will help me build one. I know- I know you don’t think I can do it, but it’s already _done_. I’ve spent years with her already. I’ve been her student in two different institutions, Mum.” Rosie squeezes her hand again before leaning across, hugging her tightly as the Doctor falls apart, repeating _no, no_ under her breath, interspersed with River’s name and sobs. “Shh,” she comforts her, kissing her head. “Shh, Mum.”

“ _River._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> so, i wrote a hpxdw thingy. kudos to me, yay...idk how long to make this. depending on how it goes, i'll aim for 30k or less; maybe longer, depending on my muse. she likes to disappear and nap in another dimension without my permission.


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